1980 Week: Serial

          Perhaps more than any other American movie released in 1980, Serial makes an appropriate cinematic headstone for the ’70s, meaning the spiritual ethos of that wild decade rather than the chronological decade itself. Set in California’s Marin County, that affluent enclave long maligned as a nesting place for privileged white folks with a weakness for cultural fads, Serial concerns a character who’s sick to death of people talking about feelings and self-realization and social issues, because what he really craves is the Eisenhower-era ideal of a secure career and a stable home. This dude dug getting his rocks off during the anything-goes ’70s, and he’s hip enough to grasp why his daughter joins a cult and why his best friend becomes a swinger, but when consciousness-raising compels his wife to seek meaning outside the home, enough is enough. Like the disappointed boomers whom Lawrence Kasdan depicted so sharply thee years later in The Big Chill (1983), the nominal hero of Serial is a man for whom the ’70s left a bittersweet aftertaste.

          Based on a novel by Cyra McFadden, Serial has more in the way of concepts and themes than it does in the way of narrative clarity. Although the picture ostensibly tracks the adventures of businessman Harvey Holroyd (Martin Mull), it’s really more of an ensemble piece. Similarly, although the picture fares best when it cruises along with verbal satire, director Bill Persky and his collaborators unwisely attempt laugh-out-loud farce at many points, such as the hellzapoppin climax. That stuff falls flat more often than not, and the chaos it creates adds to the sense that Serial is an unwieldy mess. After all, the movie involves gay romantic drama, a motorcycle gang, myriad sexual affairs, a suicide, and many other things. Will the real Serial stand up? And for that matter, does the title, which was extrapolated from the source material, really make sense given how the story evolved during the transition from one medium to another? Oh, well.

          Its discombobulated nature aside, Serial contains some wonderful stuff. Mull slays with his signature deadpan delivery, and his rendering of the line “I’m going to love-bomb the shit out of them” is priceless. The name of the movie’s cult, the Church of Oriental Christian Harmony, is a fabulous one-liner. Costar Sally Kellerman’s remark, “I want to talk about how I’m having trouble talking about it,” captures the ridiculous extremes of the Me Decade, as does the bit when Tuesday Weld, as the wife of Mull’s character, castigates Harvey for daring to criticize their daughter in front of friends: “Do you know what you’ve done to her peer-group dynamics?” Mention should also be made of Tom Smothers’ droll supporting performance as a hippy-dippy clergyman, as well as Bill Macy’s fine work portraying the hero’s confused pal. Alas, there’s a lot of stuff in Serial that is the opposite of wonderful. Christopher Lee is horribly miscast, and the portrayal of gay characters is grossly dehumanizing. Whether the good outweighs the bad is a highly subjective matter.

Serial: FUNKY

1980 Week: My Bodyguard

          Note: While I'm on vacation, please enjoy a double-dose of 1980 movies with two weeks of brand-new posts about the year that brought the '70s to a close. Included in this super-sized batch of 1980 reviews are two movies recently requested by readers. Regular reviews of 1970s features will resume on Monday, July 25. Meantime, keep on keepin' on!
          Charming but slight, this crowd-pleaser about a pair of high-school misfits who yank each other from their doldrums was the promising directorial debut of actor/producer Tony Bill, best known at the time for coproducing The Sting (1973). Seen with hindsight, My Bodyguard is pocked with such imperfections as awkward tonal shifts and threadbare dramatic transitions. However, the endearing work of the two leads blends with an overall humanistic sensibility to cast the movie in a warm glow from start to finish. Therefore, even though the film's basic storyline is a clichéd underdog saga, only the most hard-hearted viewer can resist the pull of My Bodyguard.
          Set in Chicago, the picture concerns nebbish teenager Clifford Peache (Chris Makepeace), who transfers from a private academy to a tough public school. Clifford's father, Mr. Peache (Martin Mull), is the live-in manager of a posh hotel, but Mr. Peache is forever distracted by the antics of his aging mother. Gramma (Ruth Gordon) is a cheerful eccentric who spends her evenings making outrageous sexual overtures to men in the hotel bar. Upon arrival at his new school, Clifford recklessly embarrasses the school bully, Moody (Matt Dillon), thereby making a permanent enemy of the punk who shakes down nerds for lunch money. Meanwhile, Clifford becomes aware of a mysterious classmate named Ricky Linderman (Adam Baldwin), who is rumored to have missed school because he murdered someone. Once Clifford meets Ricky, he recognizes a kindred spirit—someone misunderstood for his sensitivity—even though Ricky is physically formidable because he's bigger and older than his peers. After one too many run-ins with Moody and his goons, Clifford hatches a wild idea and hires Ricky to serve as his bodyguard.
          Although there's little suspense regarding whether the main characters will overcome their differences, somehow it all works. Whenever Clifford and Ricky celebrate their newfound companionship (as in the climactic scene of a long motorcycle ride through city streets), the effect is genuinely uplifting. Similarly, the final showdown between the heroes and their enemy is as thrilling as it is simplistic. Dave Grusin's robust music keeps the movie energetic and propulsive, while judicious editing (credited to Stu Linder) keeps scenes focused and tight. Yet it’s the performances that make My Bodyguard fly. Dillon and Makepeace, both of whom had just begun their film careers, fill the screen with believable emotions, while Baldwin, in his movie debut, tears into the colorful role of a gentle giant with a traumatic past. Others in the solid cast are John Houseman, playing an enjoyably contrived cameo role, and the very young Jennifer Beals and Joan Cusack, both of whom play dorky students.

My Bodyguard: GROOVY

FM (1978)

          Had it been made with more verve—and a lot less Hollywood polish—FM could easily have become one of the great rock & roll movies, because the plot is a simple tribute to the rebel spirit of youth-oriented music. When corporate overlords try to force crass advertisements onto the ragtag DJ’s at L.A.’s top rock station, the jocks barricade the doors, take over the station, and broadcast commercial-free tunes until a riot breaks out between kids who want to groove on the music and cops who want to shut the party down. And because somebody working on the picture clearly had heavy music-industry connections, the film is jammed with genuine rock tunes from the era: The picture’s slinky theme song was written and performed by Steely Dan; the score comprises songs by acts including Boston, the Eagles, and Queen; and Jimmy Buffet and Linda Ronstadt perform onscreen. Unfortunately, the music is so good (and so prevalent) that it overwhelms the slight story. Additionally, while FM should’ve been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am quickie, it sprawls across a lugubrious 104 minutes.
          The hero of the piece is Jeff Dugan (Michael Brandon), an idealistic program director who pushes Q-SKY to the top of the L.A. market. His success draws the attention of Regis Lamar (Tom Tarpey), an ambitious salesman with Q-SKY’s parent company. When Lamar insists that Dugan run ads for the Army, Dugan quits, so his cronies show solidarity by staging the aforementioned occupation. Ezra Sacks’ screenplay never takes flight, wasting the considerable potential of the premise, and the film gets bogged down in unnecessary discursions, like a long sequence of narcissistic DJ Eric Swan (Martin Mull) melting down on the air. Casting is another problem, because while Brandon is smooth, he doesn’t have the star quality needed to play a charismatic ringleader, and supporting players including Eileen Brennan, Alex Karras, James Keach, and Cleavon Little are underused. However, FM gets points for atmosphere. Watching the physical operation of an old-school radio station is fascinating, and the cast features several real-life rock-music personalities. FYI, FM was the only theatrical feature directed by the great cinematographer John A. Alonzo, so the movie looks slick—although Alonzo’s gifts clearly didn’t extend to dramaturgy.

FM: FUNKY