Hangup (1974)

          Painfully generic blaxploitation melodrama Hangup provides a minor footnote within film history because it was the last picture helmed by Golden Age stalwart Henry Hathaway, once a reliable director of action movies and Westerns. Exactly none of his former ability is on display here—Hangup has all the momentum and style of a bad TV episode. To be fair, the version screened for this blog is an abbreviated cut that was re-released as Super Dude. Still, nothing suggests a few extra moments of character development could possibly elevate Hangup into anything meritorious, especially because the leading performances by William Elliott and Marki Bey are lifeless. He plays a college student training to be a cop (who somehow snags an undercover gig on a narcotics squad) and she plays his high-school dream girl, now lost in a spiral of drug addiction and sex work. The threadbare plot involves Ken (Elliott) pumping Julie (Bey) for information he can use to nail a big-time supplier named Richards (Michael Lerner). Predictably, close proximity causes Ken and Julie to fall in love. Tragedy ensues.

          Shot in grungy pockets of Los Angeles on a minuscule budget, Hangup plods along at a dreary pace exacerbated by Bey’s and Elliott’s wooden acting. In their defense, it would take a special class of thespian to animate lines such as this one: “I’m hooked on her the same way she was hooked on smack!” Yet at least for its first hour, Hangup is moderately watchable because the hackneyed contrivance of a narc falling for a junkie has inherent drama. Alas, that strength leads to Hangup’s biggest weakness. When there are still more than 20 minutes left to go, the movie wraps up the love story, a glitch made worse because the main villain has also been sidelined. These narrative choices slow the pace nearly to the point of inertia. And then there’s the sleaze factor—or, rather, the lack thereof. Notwithstanding a few topless scenes, Hangup feels restrained in comparison to, say, Jack Hill’s gonzo blaxploitation joints. So while an easily offended viewer might find Hangup more palatable than other films from the same genre, serious Blaxploitation fans will be left jonesing for a fix of something rougher.

Hangup: FUNKY

Firehouse (1973)

          Interesting only because of its cast, this brisk TV movie about racial tensions in a Los Angeles firefighting company was intended as the pilot for a series, but most of the name-brand actors disappeared between the initial telefilm and the first weekly episode, which didn’t air until a year after the pilot movie’s debut. Richard Roundtree, still riding high on the success of Shaft (1971) and its sequels, stars as Shelly Forsythe, an African-American firefighter who is tired of facing racism at work, to say nothing of accusations from civilians of being an Uncle Tom. Before Shelly enters the picture, however, viewers are introduced to an all-white company whose senior officer, Spike Ryerson (Vince Edwards), blames the recent death of his best friend on an at-large black arsonist. Thus, when Shelly is assigned to take the dead fireman’s place, Spike and his cronies haze the new arrival terribly. Worse, when one of the firemen witnesses Shelly allowing a black suspect to leave the scene of a crime, Spike presumes that Shelly is unwilling to help capture black crooks. Meanwhile, Shelly navigates the difficulties of his marriage to Michelle (Sheila Frazier), who wants him to succeed so they can improve their standard of living.

          All of this is standard stuff. Furthermore, many scenes in Firehouse look chintzy because the producers interspersed grainy newsreel footage instead of staging full-scale fire scenes. Yet despite the shallow writing and tacky production values, Firehouse is basically watchable thanks to the acting. Roundtree is excellent, proving once again that Hollywood missed a great opportunity by failing to place him in better projects; his mixture of charm and righteous indignation works well. Frazier is good, too, blending sexiness and strength. And while Edwards merely performs his role adequately, familiar actors in smaller parts add texture. Val Avery gives a salty turn as the company’s short-tempered cook, Andrew Duggan is authoritative as the company’s progressive-minded captain, Richard Jaeckel does solid work as one of Spike’s cohorts, and Michael Lerner appears fleetingly as a liberal civilian working with the fire company. (Paul Le Mat lingers on the fringes of the movie, as well.) Of these performers, only Jaeckel stayed on for the Firehouse series, which ran for a few months in 1974.

Firehouse: FUNKY

Outlaw Blues (1977)

          A studio picture offering a breezy take on the criminals-on-the-run formula more commonly encountered in exploitation films, Outlaw Blues combines a solid premise, plentiful action, and melodic original songs to render enjoyably disposable entertainment. Notably, the picture is one of the few purely mainstream star vehicles that Peter Fonda made during the erratic period that followed his 1969 breakout hit Easy Rider; whereas most of Fonda’s ’70s flicks reek of sleaziness, Outlaw Blues is comparatively wholesome even though it’s about a recidivist criminal. An amiable blend of Southern mayhem and music-industry satire, the picture has all the noise and speed of a Corman production while also benefitting from better production values and the willingness to eschew overly lurid elements.
          Imaginatively scripted by Bill L. Norton and unobtrusively directed by Richard T. Heffron, the movie lets Fonda’s rebel-hero persona manifest as mischievous charm instead of violent anarchy. It also helps that Fonda is paired with leading lady Susan Saint James, whose ballsy attitude and throaty voice provide a Type A complement to Fonda’s laconic vibe. Fonda plays Bobby Ogden, a jailed musician who performs his song “Outlaw Blues” during a soundcheck when country star Garland Dupree (James T. Callahan) prepares for a concert at the big house. Although Garland pretends to be unimpressed, he subsequently records a hit version of “Outlaw Blues” and claims to have written the song. When Bobby gets paroled, he confronts Garland, who accidentally shoots his own foot during the resulting scuffle, then blames his injury on the ex-con. Suddenly a fugitive, Fonda aligns with Tina Waters (Saint James), a backup singer with loads of music-industry savvy. She arranges for Bobby to record “Outlaw Blues,” and that version becomes an even bigger hit than the first one, elevating Bobby to country-music stardom even though he’s on the run from police.
          Norton’s amiable script features several lively characterizations, so whenever the picture focuses on such obnoxious Nashville types as Garland and sleazy label executive Hatch (Michael Lerner), Outlaw Blues becomes a rollicking travelogue of Fonda’s odyssey through a world of rampant amorality. Scenes of Fonda performing music are so casual and warm that it’s easy to believe his character’s popularity, and the catchiness of the title song adds credibility. (The tune was written by John Oates, of Hall and Oates fame.) Fonda is his usual mellow self, letting the storyline do most of the heavy lifting, while Saint James adds sparks as a liberated woman who’s a sucker for a hard-luck case. And even if the chase scenes (involving boats, cars, and motorcycles) drag on endlessly, they don’t totally overwhelm the film’s low-key charm.

Outlaw Blues: GROOVY