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

The Night That Panicked America (1975)

          Clever, exciting, and suspenseful, The Night That Panicked America tells a quasi-fictionalized version of the events surrounding Orson Welles’ notorious 1938 radio adaptation of H.G. Wells’ sci-fi novel The War of the Worlds. Broadcast when radio was America’s primary form of home entertainment, Welles’ show was so immersive and persuasive that thousands upon thousands of listeners believed invaders from Mars had actually landed on Earth and commenced a hellacious assault. This highly enjoyable made-for-TV movie was adapted from the play Invasion from Mars, which was written by Howard Koch, the author of the script for the Welles broadcast. Yet arguably the most important contributor to this project was the gifted novelist and screenwriter Nicholas Meyer, credited with writing the screen story and cowriting (with Anthony Wilson) the teleplay. A literate fantasist adept at injecting new life into familiar characters (Jack the Ripper, Sherlock Holmes, the crew of the starship Enterprise), Meyer was ideally suited for transforming a historical event into old-fashioned pulp fiction.

          The movie cuts deftly between the scene at a CBS radio studio in New York City and various places around the country where people listen to the broadcast. In the studio scenes, Paul Shenar plays Welles like a demonically possessed orchestra conductor, determined to see his complex vision realized no matter the obstacles. One of the best creative choices made by the team behind The Night That Panicked America was eschewing psychoanalysis of Welles—simply presenting his determination implies plenty. The studio scenes are realistic and vivid, celebrating the gifts of voice actors and the resourcefulness of technicians. (The sound-effect subplot involving a bathroom is quite droll.)

          As for the pandemonium scenes, they’re more pedestrian but still quite effective. Borrowing a page from the disaster-movie playbook, the filmmakers present people who are either caught up in personal troubles or stupidly oblivious, with their reactions to impending doom revealing their personalities. The most compelling thread involves Hank Muldoon (Vic Morrow), a beleaguered family man contemplating leaving his wife, Ann (Eileen Brennan), and their children. When the Welles broadcast convinces the Muldoons the end is near, Hank takes extreme measures leading to a harrowing climax. (One can’t help but wonder whether Frank Darabont saw this telefilm, as the conclusion of the Muldoon supblot anticipates a key scene in Darabont’s 2007 Stephen King adaptation The Mist.)

          Directed by the reliable Joseph Sargent and featuring solid supporting actors—Tom Bosley, Michael Constantine, Cliff De Young, Will Geer, John Ritter—The Night That Panicked America may include a high quotient of artistic license, but isn’t using every possible means to put on a good show very much in the spirit of the Welles broadcast?

The Night That Panicked America: GROOVY

Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring (1971)

          Seeing as how she first gained mainstream attention by starring in the silly TV series Gidget (1965-1966) and The Flying Nun (1967-1970), Sally Field seemed destined for a career in light comedy. Yet as early as 1971, when she starred in this TV movie about the Generation Gap, Field made it clear she was both interested in exploring dramatic material and proficient at playing serious roles. So, even though Field didn’t truly burst free of typecasting until starring in the acclaimed telefilm Sybil (1976), this earlier endeavor represents an important step along her path. In Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring, Field stars as Denise Miller, the oldest daughter of upper-middle-class parents who are preoccupied with reputation and social position.

          When the story begins, Denise returns home after a year she spent on the road with hippies. Her arrival stirs up old tensions. Denise’s superficial father, Ed (Jackie Cooper), gets bent out of shape whenever rules of propriety aren’t followed, and Denise’s smothering mom, Claire (Eleanor Parker), ranges from passive-aggressive nastiness to outright judgmental cruelty. Meanwhile, Denise’s little sister, sexy teenybopper Susie (Lane Bradbury), has started a spiral even more destructive than Denise’s, maintaining a drug habit and quarrelling with her parents at every opportunity.

          As written with great sensitivity by Bruce Feldman, Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring creates tension by asking whether Denise can suppress her freespirited identity sufficiently to integrate into a repressive household. Concurrently, Susie repeats troublesome behaviors that she learned from Denise. At its most incisive, Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring features moments like the elaborate party scene during which Denise’s oblivious parents mistake Denise’s concern for Susie’s welfare as a signal that Denise is drugged or overwrought; the sequence provides an effective dramatization of people seeing only what they want to see.

          Produced and directed by the reliable Joseph Sargent, Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring has uniformly good acting and a steady pace, even if Sargent’s integration of flashbacks to Denise’s life among the longhairs isn’t especially graceful. Similarly, the ticking-clock device of Denise’s lover, Flack (David Carradine), making his way across the country to “rescue” Denise is a bit contrived, though it adds a sense of urgency. The film’s most interesting stylistic element is probably the inclusion of a song score performed by the great Linda Ronstadt, since her soulful vocals capture the angst of the storyline. Holding the whole thing together, of course, are the key performances. Field does an excellent job of complicating her good-girl image, often venturing to places of deep emotion, and Bradbury is terrific as a confused young woman who perceives herself as a victim even though she’s really a spoiled brat. Carradine, Cooper, and Parker inhabit their subordinate roles skillfully.

Maybe I’ll Come Home in the Spring: GROOVY

Tribes (1970)

          Simultaneously disciplined and impassioned, the TV movie Tribes—which also received a small theatrical release—examines how the Generation Gap complicated America’s experience of the Vietnam War. Creating a simple conflict between characters who represent opposing ends of the political spectrum, the picture pits hard-driving drill instructor Drake (Darren McGavin) against hippie recruit Adrian (Jan-Michael Vincent). Initially determined to break down Adrian’s resistance in order to instill other recruits with respect for military duty, Drake slowly peels back his opponent’s layers and, as a result of that process, grows to respect the younger man’s pacifist attitude.

          On the surface, this storyline may sound absurdly contrived—peacenik softens warmonger—but Tribes works because it approaches Drake’s transformation with patience and respect. Instead of portraying the drill instructor as a bloodthirsty monster who unquestionably feeds the military machine with fresh meat, the filmmakers—director Joseph Sargent and writers Marvin Schwartz and Tracy Keenan Wynn—paint Drake as a complex man confronted with changing times. Adrian, meanwhile, is a compendium of counterculture signifiers (enigmatic silences, long hair, yoga meditation postures, etc.), so it’s natural that Drake would find Adrian distasteful at first glance. Yet as the men wage their battle of wills—which Drake eventually learns is one-sided, since Adrian is, metaphorically speaking, making love not war—both characters develop empathy. Make no mistake, the filmmakers align themselves with Adrian’s antiwar stance. Yet in avoiding the obvious play of making Drake a monster, the filmmakers open the door to a touching statement about the human capacity for change. In the world of Tribes, compassion is the most valuable commodity.
          Even within the boundaries of a tight TV-movie budget, Sargent integrates feature-style flourishes that give Tribes a hint of poetry. The twee theme song succinctly articulates how America divided into antiwar and pro-war factions (key lyric: “tribes are gathering”), and crisp flashbacks are used to illustrate the gentle romantic vignettes that Adrian summons when centering himself during yoga. Better still, the flourishes complement otherwise straightforward storytelling, so the cinematic style echoes the initial gulf between Drake’s rigid existence and Adrian’s transcendent journey. The very different energies of the leading actors contribute to the effect, with McGavin incarnating man’s-man irascibility and Vincent channeling mellow Age of Aquarius vibes. Everything good about Tribes converges in the ending, which appropriately—and somewhat movingly—encapsulates the way the principal characters alter each other’s destinies.

Tribes: GROOVY

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three (1974)

          A clever and funny hostage picture with an offbeat setting and an even more offbeat protagonist, the 1974 version of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is vastly superior to the 2009 remake starring John Travolta and Denzel Washington. Whereas the latter picture is frenetic and slick, Joseph Sargent’s ’70s version mixes expertly orchestrated suspense with amusingly grumpy Noo Yawk character flourishes. In fact, The Taking of Pelham One Two Three achieves that most difficult of balancing acts by intermingling danger and humor so that scenes are often jittery and droll at the same time. The title relates to the hijacking of an NYC subway train by a group of middle-aged terrorists whom we get to know by code names: Ice-blooded mastermind “Mr. Blue” (Robert Shaw), trigger-happy gunman “Mr. Grey” (Hector Elizondo), avuncular driver “Mr. Green” (Martin Balsam), and accomplice “Mr. Brown” (Earl Hindman). These four take over a train and communicate their demand for $1 million via radio to the New York Transit Authority, threatening to kill hostages on a regular basis if the city fails to meet a ransom deadline. This puts the crooks at odds with Lt. Zachary Garber (Walter Matthau), a sarcastic, seen-it-all cop with the Transit Authority’s police force.

          Many of the beats in this story, which was adapted from a novel by John Godey, are standard stuff for hostage pictures: The political machinations of the mayor as he contemplates paying the ransom; the revelation that one of the hostages is an undercover cop; the tricky games Garber plays to buy time; and so on. It’s the execution, however, that makes all the difference. The great playwright/screenwriter Peter Stone delivers Godey’s pulpy narrative with what can only be described as effervescence. While Stone ensures that violent scenes have genuine tension, he threads the script with dry one-liners and pithy dialogue exchanges. In particular, Stone does wonders with the radio conversations between Garber and “Mr. Blue”—the adversaries pick at each other like bickering spouses, a vibe underlined by the contrast between Matthau’s put-upon petulance and Shaw’s tightly contained rage. (Another of the film’s many effective running jokes involves Garber giving a tour of the Transit Authority’s facilities to visiting Japanese dignitaries on the day the hijacking happens; wait for the terrific punchline after watching Garber make a series of offensive remarks to his seemingly oblivious guests.)

          Sargent keeps his camerawork nimble, exploiting the atmosphere of gritty locations, and he benefits from the hard-edged imagery of master New York cinematographer Owen Roizman (The French Connection). Adding to the entertaining verisimilitude is a cavalcade of salty New York character actors: In addition to Balsam, Elizondo, and Matthau, the picture features Kenneth McMillan, Dick O’Neill, Doris Roberts, and Tony Roberts. Balsam and Elizondo are memorable as, respectively, a schmuck who gets involved in something he can’t handle and a psycho who gets off on carrying a gun. Best of all, of course, is the movie’s exciting final act, which features a series of unexpected climaxes stacked upon each other—the conclusion of The Taking of Pelham One Two Three manages to pay off every subplot meticulously and satisfyingly.

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three: GROOVY

White Lightning (1973) & Gator (1976)

          The voiceover hype in the trailer says it all: “Burt Reynolds is Gator McCluskey—he’s a booze-runnin’, motor-gunnin’, law-breakin’, love-makin’ rebel. He hits the screen like a bolt of white lightning!” Indeed he does in White Lightning, arguably the best of Reynolds’ myriad ’70s flicks about working-class good ol’ boys mixin’ it up with John Q. Law. Whereas too many of the star’s Southern-fried action pictures devolve into silly comedy—including, to some degree, White Lightning’s sequel, Gator—the first screen appearance of Gator McCluskey is a sweaty, tough thriller pitting a formidable hero against an even more formidable villain. If you’ve got a hankering for swampy pulp, White Lightning is the gen-yoo-wine article.

          When the picture begins, Bobby “Gator” McCluskey (Reynolds) is incarcerated for running moonshine. Meanwhile, back home in the boonies, corrupt Sheriff J.C. Conners (Ned Beatty) causes the death of Gator’s little brother. Once Gator hears the news, he swears revenge and joins an FBI sting operation targeting Conners’ crew. Using a staged jailbreak for cover, Gator hooks up with a moonshiner named Roy Boone (Bo Hopkins) and penetrates Conners’ operation in order to dredge up incriminating facts. However, it’s not long before the no-good sheriff smells a rat, setting the stage for a showdown. Written by William W. Norton and directed by the versatile Joseph Sargent, White Lightning is a no-nonsense thrill ride. Even though the filmmakers cram all the requisite elements into the picture’s lean 101 minutes—including a love story between Gator and Roy’s girl, Lou (Jennifer Billingsley)—the focus remains squarely on Gator’s hunger for vengeance, which manifests in bar brawls, car chases, shootouts, and various other forms of 100-proof conflict.

          Working in the fierce mode of his performance in Deliverance (1972), Reynolds is a he-man force of nature, whether he’s punching his way through hand-to-hand combat or, in his own inimitable fashion, clutching a steering wheel and gritting his teeth while his character guides cars through amazing jumps. Reynolds’ fellow Deliverance veteran, Ned Beatty, makes a fine foil, especially because Beatty defies expectations by underplaying his role—hidden behind thick glasses, with his portly frame bursting out of tight short-sleeve shirts, he’s a picture of heartless greed. The gut-punch score by Charles Bernstain jacks things up, as well, so White Lightning lives up to its name—it goes down smooth, then burns when it hits your system.

          Reynolds let a few years lapse before returning to the character with Gator, which also represented the actor’s directorial debut. Essentially rehashing the narrative of the fist picture, but without the emotional pull of a murdered-relative angle, Gator finds our hero released from prison, again, to take down another corrupt lawman. What Gator lacks in originality, however, it makes up for in casting and production values. Country singer-turned-actor Jerry Reed gives great villain as smooth-talking redneck crook Bama McCall, chubby funnyman Jack Weston generates laughs as a sidekick prone to physical injury, and gap-toothed model-turned-actress Lauren Hutton lends glamour as Gator’s new love interest. (TV host and occasional actor Mike Douglas shows up in a minor role, too.) The sheer amount of property destruction in Gator is impressive, though the movie relies too heavily on spectacle since it can’t match the tension of its predecessor.

          Oddly, the weakest link in Gator is Reynolds’ performance, because the actor veers too far into comedy. By this point sporting his signature moustache and demonstrating his gift for pratfalls and other slapstick silliness, Reynolds seems to occasionally forget he’s making a thriller. Sure, some viewers might find this take on Gator McCluskey more fun to watch than the grim characterization in White Lightning, but it’s worth nothing that Gator helped start Reynolds down the slippery slope into his goofy Smokey and the Bandit and Cannonball Run movies. Gator’s worth a gander, since it’s hard to complain about a movie being too enjoyable, but it’s not as satisfying as the title character’s debut.

White Lightning: GROOVY

Gator: GROOVY

The Man (1972)

          A true ’70s obscurity that’s well worth tracking down, The Man is a whip-smart imaginary tale about the first black U.S. president. Built around a taut screenplay by Rod Serling and a commanding performance by James Earl Jones, the picture now seems quite prescient—believe it or not, the title character’s campaign slogan is “Change.” Based on a novel by Irving Wallace, the story presents a convoluted chain of events leading to the installation of Sen. Douglass Dilman as president. After the previous commander in chief and the Speaker of the House are killed in an accident, the sitting vice president exits the line of succession because he’s terminally ill. Thus, the presidency falls to the Senate’s pro tem president, Dilman. This doesn’t sit well with white power brokers including Secretary of State Eaton (William Windom), who has designs on the Oval Office, and Senator Watson (Burgess Meredith), an unapologetic racist from an unnamed Southern state. As a result, Dilman is a political target from the moment he takes power.

          Even potential supporters have issues with Dilman, simply because his ascension carries the weight of history. In one of the film’s best quiet moments, Dilman shares an exchange with his activist daughter, Wanda (Janet MacLachlan), the night he inherits the presidency. “They were expecting a black messiah,” Dilman says about African-Americans. Her reply? “What they’ve got is a black president—that’s more than they’ve ever gotten.” Then Dilman delivers the kicker, which resonates strongly in the Obama era: “I can’t be what everyone wants me to be.” The Man poignantly anticipates the gulf between dreams and reality that has been the source of so much anti-Obama criticism and disappointment.

          Yet The Man cleverly sidesteps the question of what a black president might do with a mandate, instead portraying Dilman as a dedicated public servant who inherits a racially charged mess. At the moment he takes the oath of office, a young African-American college student is under suspicion following an attempt on the South African defense minister’s life, and a minority-rights bill is working its way through Congress. Worse, domestic adversaries including Watson, Eaton, and Eaton’s Lady Macbeth-esque wife, Kay (Barbara Rush), forge political wedges with which to dislodge Dilman’s political standing, lest the accidental president decide he wants a full term.

          The Man is preachy and talky—Serling shares with Aaron Sorkin the debate-club approach to dramatic structure—but the plot churns with enough Beltway skullduggery to ground the speechifying in suspense. Director Joseph Sargent, a reliable TV-trained helmer, serves the material well by staying out of the way, and the acting is uniformly vivid. Meredith and Rush are believably loathsome as D.C. barracudas, Georg Sanford Brown lends fire as the impassioned college student, and the great Martin Balsam provides gravitas and warmth as the president’s chief of staff. The whole movie rests on Jones’ shoulders, however, and he meets the challenge with grace. Portraying an intellectual who has channeled his indignation into diplomatic rhetoric, Jones employs his formidable powers to convey charisma, strength, and wisdom—the very qualities that, decades later, distinguish the individual who changed history in the real world the way the Dilman character changed history in the reel world.

The Man: GROOVY

Goldengirl (1979)

          If nothing else, the sports drama Goldengirl delivers on its title—the film is crammed with adoring shots of leading lady Susan Anton, a gleaming Amazon with a lustrous blonde mane. Yet Anton, while not exactly horrible, is the picture’s weakest link. The fault is not entirely hers, since screenwriter John Kohn and director Joseph Sargent failed to provide her with a fleshed-out role—but because Anton is in nearly every scene, her superficiality defines the movie.
          Story-wise, Goldengirl is a cautionary tale with a touch of sci-fi. During the run-up to the 1980 Moscow Olympics, top sports agent Jack Dryden (James Coburn) is asked to join the team preparing Goldine (Anton) for an unprecedented feat—winning three gold medals in sprinting events. As Jack is shown around a remote mountaintop training facility, we learn that Goldine—nicknamed “Goldengirl”—has been conditioned from childhood for Olympic victory. Her adoptive father, Serafin (Curt Jurgens), is an obsessed Germanic scientist whose work may or may not have begun during the Third Reich’s grotesque eugenics experiments.

          Jack is considered crucial to the Goldengirl team because he’s got the connections to line up millions in endorsement deals if she wins all three medals, thus recouping the money that’s been invested in her. The more the story progresses, however, the more apparent it becomes that Serafin is a lunatic who’s been pumping Goldine full of dangerous hormones for years, simply to gain an international spotlight with which to showcase his crackpot theories about human evolution.

          Based on a novel by Peter Lear, Goldengirl could (and should) have been a provocative conspiracy movie, with the innocent Goldine caught in the machinations of commerce and megalomania. Unfortunately, the film is diffuse and passive, so no real tension develops until the last 30 minutes, when it’s revealed that running is dangerous to Goldine’s health. It’s also incredibly distracting that Anton looks nothing like an athlete—she’s lean but soft, and she wears dense mascara even during major races. Furthermore, the name actors surrounding Anton—in addition to those mentioned, Leslie Caron plays a shrink and Robert Culp plays a journalist—perform their paycheck gigs indifferently. Compounding Goldengirl’s second-rate status is the fact that America didn’t actually participate in the 1980 Olympics—after this picture was filmed, the U.S. pulled out of the Moscow games in response to Russia’s invasion of Afghanistan.

Goldengirl: FUNKY

MacArthur (1977)

          The reason this unremarkable drama exists couldn’t be more obvious: MacArthur was envisioned as a successor to the Oscar-winning military biography Patton (1970), since MacArthur presents another comprehensive survey of a World War II-era general’s career. Alas, all the genius and inspiration that touched the makers of Patton eluded the folks behind MacArthur, which ends up being the equivalent of a pleasant TV movie, notwithstanding the presence of expensive production values and a top-shelf leading man. Yet MacArthur finds itself wanting even in the person of its star, for Gregory Peck simply can’t muster anything resembling the complexity that George C. Scott brought to Patton. Peck doesn’t give a bad performance, but he doesn’t give a great one, either.

          The basic outline of MacArthur’s career as a commanding officer should be familiar to most viewers. While overseeing America’s forces in the Pacific during World War II, MacArthur was recalled to Washington, D.C., against his wishes. On his way out of the embattled Philippines, the corncob-pipe-smoking general boldly announced, “I shall return.” True to his word, MacArthur subsequently oversaw the liberation of the Philippines and seemed poised for even greater victories until President Truman ended World War II by dropping the world’s first two atomic bombs on Japan.

          When a fresh war in the Pacific broke out less than a decade later, MacArthur resumed his individualistic command style by leading troops in Korea, but he angered the powers-that-be so deeply with his insubordination that he was stripped of his command. Then, in 1951, he ended his military career with a famous address including the lines, “Old soldiers never die—they just fade away.”

          All of these high points are present in MacArthur, which aspires to provide a fully shaped narrative but falls into the trap of simply presenting exciting episodes. Nonetheless, the movie is quite watchable, thanks to Peck’s charisma, director Joseph Sargent’s unobtrusive storytelling, and the sweep of the film’s many battle scenes. The movie also boasts a secret weapon in world-class character actor Ed Flanders, who gives a memorably cantankerous performance as Truman. (Workaday actors rounding out the cast include Russell Johnson, Dan O’Herlihy, Dick O’Neill, and G.D. Spradlin.)

          As for Peck, he commits to the role with a plucked hairline and a somber demeanor, but he seems trapped between emulating the decency of his signature roles (notably To Kill a Mockingbird’s Atticus Finch) and mimicking the hard edges of Scott’s unforgettable turn as Patton. To his credit, Peck has some fine moments, and he sticks the landing by delivering the “old soldiers” speech beautifully. One wishes, however, that the movie and its leading performance were as dynamic as the historical figure being examined.

MacArthur: FUNKY

Hustling (1975)

          Based on a nonfiction book by Gail Sheehy, who interviewed and spent time with a group of real New York City hookers, the solidly assembled telefilm Hustling offers a sober look at the world of prostitution. The movie focuses on a Sheehy stand-in, sophisticated journalist Fran Morrison (Lee Remick). Curious why working girls have become ubiquitous in Times Square, and why the police seem incapable of containing the problem, Fran zeroes in on tough-talking pro Wanda (Jill Clayburgh), who is stuck in city jail. Fran pays Wanda’s bail in exchange for information, so Wanda explains her relationships with johns, pimps, and other prostitutes. This leads Fran to discover the network of city officials and slumlords making money off the sex trade, transforming Fran’s article from a color piece about hooking to an exposé about corruption. Understandably, the deeper Fran digs into the prostitution business, the more pressure Wanda feels to stop talking.

          Hustling doesn’t shy away from the dangers of streetwalking—Wanda gets beaten and raped, and another prostitute commits suicide—yet the movie illustrates how some women can survive the business long enough to sock away cash and escape with their souls intact. Directed by reliable TV-movie helmer Joseph Sargent, who also made a handful of noteworthy features, Hustling moves along at a strong pace and boasts a great sense of atmosphere. There’s a documentary-style feel to the way Sargent’s cameras observe characters in dark alleyways, grungy coffee shops, and vile hotel rooms that rent by the hour. Sargent also benefits from vibrant acting.

          Remick seethes with a believable type of rich-liberal indignation, and the supporting cast features a number of ’70s favorites, including Paul Benedict, Melanie Mayron, Dick O’Neill, Alex Rocco, and Burt Young. However, the movie’s best/worst element is Clayburgh’s performance. Spewing a cartoonish Noo Yawk accent and strutting with seen-it-all attitude, Clayburgh is compelling from start to finish even though she’s unable to blend the strong and vulnerable aspects of her role into a believable characterization. However, if the worst shortcoming of a move is an actress investing too much effort, that’s a sign everyone involved is trying to create something worthwhile.

Hustling: GROOVY

Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970)

          Offering an imaginative sci-fi companion to Fail Safe (1964)—the chilling “what if?” drama in which a technological glitch triggers nuclear conflict—this brisk but overly talky thriller imagines what might happen if America relinquished control of its nuclear arsenal to a supercomputer. Setting aside the kitsch factor of now-dated movie imagery featuring a computer so massive it occupies the entirety of a hollowed-out mountain, Colossus has, well, colossal logic problems. The movie assumes that none of the geniuses who built the computer anticipated its likely evolution; that nobody imagined what might happen if similar systems were built by other countries; and that the entire U.S. government okayed a system lacking an “off” switch. (The script provides an explanation for that last item, but the explanation is a dodgy storytelling workaround.) Even with its flaws, however, Colossus is a noteworthy entry in the continuum of stories about the dangers of runaway artificial intelligence, a topic that gains more importance with each passing year.

          In the opening scenes, Dr. Charles A. Forbin (Eric Braeden) celebrates the launch of Colossus, a supercomputer authorized by the U.S. government to automate decisions related to the country’s nukes. As explained by Forbin, the idea is that Colossus can cycle through countless potential scenarios in seconds and then take immediate action without the impediment of emotions. Soon after Colossus goes live, America learns the Soviets have a similar system called Guardian, and Colossus demands the ability to communicate directly with Guardian. Unwisely, the American and Russian governments okay the interface, which starts a chain of events that may or may not lead to Armageddon. Meanwhile, Forbin struggles to reclaim control over Colossus, even though he designed the system to resist human intervention. And that’s basically the totality of the narrative, excepting a quasi-romantic subplot involving scientist Dr. Cleo Markham (Susan Clark)—characterization is not a priority here.

          Scripted by deft James Bridges (later to make The China Syndrome) and helmed by reliable journeyman Joseph Sargent, Colossus zips along with respectable momentum, notwithstanding the occasional lull. It also boasts consistently intelligent dialogue and a handful of clever maneuvers—for example, the sly means by which Forbin slips information out of the Colossus facility without the pesky computer noticing. The movie also benefits from an exciting and suitably futuristic score by Michael Colombier. Yet the aforementioned logic problems are mightily distracting, and it’s easy to imagine another actor doing more with the leading role than Braeden does. He’s fine whenever scenes require mild derision or smooth charm, but too often his limited range of expression flattens moments that should have radiated tension. Luckily, he’s supported by a deep bench of proficient players, including Georg Sanford Brown, William Schallert, Dolph Sweet, and—in one of those tiny roles that contributes to the epic scope of his filmography—James Hong.

Colossus: The Forbin Project: FUNKY