Stand Up and Be Counted (1972)

          In what should be a standout moment during the feminism-themed comedy Stand Up and Be Counted, ladies meet for a rap session about their encounters with sexism. Participants include Dr. Joyce Brothers (as herself), future Jeffersons star Isabel Sanford, and a nun. Alas, comedic sparks never fly, because like the rest of this flat-footed studio picture written and directed by men, the scene devolves into oversimplifications and slogans. Progressive-minded producer Mike Frankovich and his collaborators, director Jackie Cooper and screenwriter Bernard Slade, seem as if they perceived the women’s-lib movement as a whimsical fad. To a one, the feminists in this movie are portrayed as shrill whiners whose only real accomplishment is alienating the men in their lives. The picture ends on a fairly hip note, so it’s not quite as dunderheaded an affair as the preceding remarks might suggest. Nonetheless, there’s a reason Stand Up and Be Counted is not remembered as a milestone in Equal Rights Amendment-era propaganda.

          Jacqueline Bisset stars as Sheila, a fashion reporter assigned to do a magazine story on the burgeoning women’s movement. To do so, she flies to her hometown of Denver. (The script pathetically explains Bisset’s English accent by saying she spent time in London.) During the flight, Sheila rekindles her romance with an ex, Elliot (Gary Lockwood). In Denver, Sheila discovers that her mother is part of a “Senior Women’s Liberation” organization, and that her ultra-feminist younger sister, Karen (Lee Purcell), wants to hire a man to impregnate her. Torn between new and old ideas about gender roles, Sheila moves in with Elliot, only to discover he’s a patronizing chauvinist. Other threads involve a housewife rebelling against her domineering husband, and a trophy wife demanding respect for the work she does at her husband’s bra factory.

          Stand Up and Be Counted is one of those bad movies that isn’t really a bad movie. In its clumsy way, the film means well, but problems compound problems. Sheila is a hopelessly passive character, thus draining the movie of momentum, and supporting players deliver livelier work than Bisset, causing her presence to seem ornamental. (She’s simultaneously breathtaking and uninteresting.) Lockwood’s performance is lifeless, Purcell is feisty but underused, and minor turns by comic pros including Hector Elizondo, Steve Lawrence, Loretta Swit, and Nancy Walker offer only fleeting relief from the overall mediocrity. FYI, although Helen Reddy’s anthem “I Am Woman” plays during the closing credits, it was not composed for the picture. After releasing the tune a year before, Reddy re-recorded “I Am Woman” for Stand Up and Be Counted, and the second version became a hit.

Stand Up and Be Counted: FUNKY

Stranger in Our House (1978)

          As did his peers John Carpenter and Tobe Hooper, Wes Craven made a pit stop in telefilms between his early independent efforts and his later success with big-budget movies. Yet while Carpenter made the respectable biopic Elvis (1979) and Hooper directed the passable Stephen King adaptation Salem’s Lot (also 1979), Craven marked time with this silly supernatural thriller starring Linda Blair. Reflecting none of the gonzo excess of his earlier pictures and none of the playful wit that made him famous in the ’80s and beyond, Stranger in Our House—also known as Summer of Fear—is wholly unimpressive from an artistic perspective. Yet because the movie is coherent and technically proficient, it demonstrated Craven’s ability to phone in a hack job as effectively as the next guy. Happily for horror-movie fans, Craven found his voice with 1984’s A Nightmare on Elm Street, blending the polished filmmaking he demonstrates here with the out-there qualities of his earliest endeavors while also introducing the crucial element of humor.

          Stranger in Our House revolves around the middle-class Bryant family, parents Carol and Tom plus kids Peter and Rachel (Blair). When Carol’s sister and her husband are killed in a car crash, the Bryants take in their newly orphaned niece, Julia Trent (Lee Purcell). She’s overtly wholesome, with her Ozarks accent and shy politeness, but Rachel spots trouble immediately, because—cliché alert!—an animal, specifically Rachel’s beloved horse, reacts badly to Julia’s presence. (As in all mediocre movies of this sort, nobody finds the animal’s reaction noteworthy except Rachel.) Things proceed very much according to formula. Julia steals Rachel’s boyfriend, Rachel finds weird artifacts among Julia’s belongings, and Rachel consults the neighborhood occult expert. (Wait, your neighborhood doesn’t have an occult expert?) Things move along at a fair clip, though nothing truly frightening or suspenseful happens. As for the acting, Blair is insufferably whiny, and Purcell’s adequate work gets undercut by the goofy final scenes.

Stranger in Our House: FUNKY

Almost Summer (1978)

          Two decades before Alexander Payne made Election (1999), this picture from the unlikely source of Motown Productions depicted the lengths to which single-minded teenagers will go to win the office of student-body president. The core of this picture, which dramatizes the way a heartbroken young man uses sharp political instincts to sabotage the campaign of his ex-girlfriend, is emotionally believable and mildly satirical, with imaginative episodes and realistic dialogue. Yet the movie also contains vapid discursions that weaken the overall impact. Since the picture is rated PG, there’s not much exploitative material, which is a relief, but things like musical passages and a drab subplot about a wannabe singer choosing opportunism over love feel hackneyed by comparison with the thoughtful election storyline. Similarly, the performances are inconsistent, although the actors portraying the three most character deliver solid work.

          When the story begins, bright, popular, and sexy Christine (Lee Purcell) is running for class president against a hunky opponent whose political adviser is Bobby (Bruno Kirby), Christine’s clever but ethically challenged ex. When the hunk gets disqualified, Bobby scrambles to find a new opponent who can prevent Christine from winning the election. (In this movie, hell hath no fury like a man scorned.) Bobby recruits an underachiever named Darryl (John Friedrich), and then he contrives circumstances that transform Darryl into a formidable candidate. Naturally, this puts Bobby at odds with Christine’s new boyfriend, Kevin (Tim Matheson), a football star whose future hinges on winning a college scholarship.

          As directed by Martin Davidson, who made a number of interesting but problematic features (including the 1983 cult favorite Eddie and the Cruisers), Almost Summer is a scattershot affair that explores ambition, honesty, loyalty, and self-perception. About 60 percent of the movie works, and the remainder runs the gamut from forgettable mediocrity to pandering silliness (notably a pointless food-fight scene). Kirby is excellent, though, like many of his fellow cast members, he’s far too old to play a teenager; Purcell reveals endearing vulnerability even when trudging through overly contrived scenes; and Matheson effectively portrays a decent guy who periodically succumbs to egotism. Such is the nature of Almost Summer that for every satisfactory element, including a zippy theme song by the Beach Boys, there’s something weak, like the hokey ending.

Almost Summer: 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

Kid Blue (1973)

          Throughout the ’60s and ’70s, adventurous filmmakers stretched the boundaries of the Western genre in previously unimaginable ways, often using stories set in the American frontier as allegories for contemporary themes. Yet while such provocateurs as Peckinpah and Penn mixed irreverence with ultraviolence, some filmmakers dabbling in the postmodern-Western arena opted for a gentler approach. For example, consider Kid Blue, a ingratiating comedy of sorts starring Dennis Hopper. The picture was written by Bud Shrake and directed by TV veteran James Frawley, who capitalized on his experience with such lighthearted series as The Monkees to earn gigs directing a handful of ’70s diversions, including the silly The Big Bus (1976) and sublime The Muppet Movie (1979). Translation: Don’t dig too deep into Kid Blue for auteurist statement, because Frawley mostly just plays traffic cop for the peculiarity permeating the story.

          Hopper plays Bickford, a second-rate outlaw-turned-drifter who wanders into the small town of Dime Box, looking to quit the criminal life for something more predictable. Alas, Bickford quickly gets on the wrong side of Sheriff “Mean John” Simpson (Ben Johnson)—who, in Bickford’s defense, probably doesn’t have a good side—which means that living righteously turns out to be as much of a hassle as criminality. Still, Bickford finds solace in the friendship of a sensitive factory worker, Reese (Oates), who evinces qualities that suggest a closeted homosexual. (Oates plays the put-upon textures of this character beautifully.) Bickford’s life is further complicated by trouble with women, because Reese’s wife, Molly (Lee Purcell), is a hot-to-trot spitfire who wants more than Reese is able to give, and Bickford’s old girlfriend eventually shows up, as well. Meanwhile, Bickford befriends an eccentric by the name of Preacher Bob (Boyle), who lives on the outskirts of town while he constructs a flying machine that he hopes will take him up in the air and away from the provincial rhythms of Dime Box.

          The filmmakers play heavily into Hopper’s offscreen persona, portraying Bickford as a hippie unfairly constrained by the Establishment’s rules; in one key moment, Bickford undoes his ponytail and shakes out his long tresses like a Woodstock Nation resident letting his freak flag fly after a long shift at a 9-to-5 gig. And if the superimposition of ’70s ideas and themes onto the Western milieu is a bit forced, that’s a small price to pay for the enjoyably strange textures of Kid Blue. Dime Box is unlike the towns in most Westerns, because it’s filled with believably individualistic people—who, with the obvious exception of Preacher John, are defined more by their troubled inner lives than by their peculiar outer behavior. Dime Box has more than its share of shortcomings, including a slow pace, a deficit of big laughs, and an unmemorable ending. Furthermore, Hopper’s performance can be grating at times, so the actor fails to generate much audience empathy despite his character’s sad-sack plight. Nonetheless, while it’s unfolding, Kid Blue takes viewers to novel places, and it does so with charm and compassion.

Kid Blue: GROOVY

Dirty Little Billy (1972)

          With their grungy location photography and unsentimental stories, the revisionist Westerns of the late ’60s and early ’70s blended a classic American genre with contemporary American insouciance: The injection of counterculture edginess revitalized the cowboy genre by making audiences look at Western iconography in new ways. Dirty Little Billy is a solid example of the artistic inclinations that made revisionist Westerns so interesting. As its title indicates, the picture is an unvarnished study of gunslinger William Bonney, better known as Billy the Kid. Instead of the romantic outlaw seen in previous films, this version of the character is a deranged man-child with a homicidal streak.

          Michael J. Pollard, the diminutive character actor who made a big splash in Bonnie and Clyde (1967), plays Billy as a creepy little troll perpetually covered in filth and perpetually grinning at some sick private joke. As the ramshackle movie unfolds, we see young Billy endure the rigors of a joyless home life before venturing off on his own, whereupon he falls in with brutal crook Goldie (Richard Evans) and compliant prostitute Berle (Lee Purcell).

          Far from glamorizing Billy’s exploits, the picture makes his odyssey seem miserable and sad, but the direction and screenplay are overly clinical, as if we’re studying Billy in a (contaminated) petri dish. Additionally, Pollard is way too weird to facilitate much audience connection. It’s as if the filmmakers were so determined to upend old romantic myths that they went out of their way to make Dirty Little Billy unpalatable. Making matters worse, the narrative is so episodic and slight that there’s very little momentum. Still, Dirty Little Billy is an admirable effort despite its off-putting qualities, simply because the filmmakers’ commitment to their vision is so complete—if their goal was to ensure that nobody who sees this picture perceives Billy the Kid the same way again, they succeeded. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

Dirty Little Billy: FUNKY