Love and the Midnight Auto Supply (1977)

          Entertaining in a brainless sort of way, Love and the Midnight Auto Supply is partially the story of a redneck Robin Hood who contrives a scheme for funneling profits from his various criminal enterprises to a group of oppressed farm workers. Yet it’s also a sex comedy about the main character’s relationship with a madam, a love triangle involving a rich kid torn between a good girl and a hooker, and a political story tracking the adventures of a activist. These parts hang together about as well as the disparate elements of the soundtrack, which toggles between discofied riffs on “The William Tell Overture” and swamp-boogie grooves, some of which were generated by Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Tom Fogerty. The picture bombards viewers with just enough car chases, intrigue, rebellious rhetoric, and sex to keep things interesting, but it’s fair to say writer-director James Polakof hadn’t the faintest idea what sort of movie he was making. Is Love and Midnight Auto Supply a drive-in flick for the southern audience, a with-it counterculture story for the college crowd, or straight shot of exploitation nonsense? The answer to all of these questions is yes, because, with apologies to Donny and Marie, Love and the Midnight Auto Supply is a little bit country and a little bit rock and roll.

          Michael Parks, enjoyably rural and bitchy with his cowboy hat, leather jacket, and snide remarks, stars as Duke, proprietor of Midnight Auto. He and his boys sneak into parking lots, strip cars belonging to rich folks, and re-sell the stolen parts. Midnight Auto adjoins a brothel operated by Duke’s girlfriend, Annie (Linda Cristal). Through convoluted circumstances, Duke gets involved with Peter (George McCallister), son of a local bigwig, and Peter’s revolutionary pal, Justin (Scott Jacoby). Together, these unlikely allies develop the aforementioned Robin Hood scheme. Explaining the details is pointless, since Polakof doesn’t worry much about consistent behavior or narrative logic, opting instead to rush from one colorful scene to the next. The picture is best when Parks occupies center stage, dispensing a darker hue of the good-ole-boy charm one normally associates with Burt Reynolds. Whether he’s barking at his sidekick (“C’mere, Stupid!”) or romancing Annie in a bathtub, Parks epitomizes southern-fried swagger. Those around him mostly flounder in search of roles to play, though everybody gets to do something cartoonish or nefarious or sexy. Long on vibe and short on everything else, Love and the Midnight Auto is a mildly enjoyable mess.

Love and the Midnight Auto Supply: FUNKY

Sidewinder 1 (1977)

          A passable dirt-bike adventure about which it’s difficult to generate strong feelings, Sidewinder 1 is neither heinous nor special. It’s in color, it contains some of the elements that one normally encounters in action movies, and it runs about 90 minutes. Fans who dig shots of motorcycles zooming over hills and through puddles will find a few distractions, and there’s a linear story in place, albeit a perfunctory one. Additionally, some of the actors in the picture will be familiar to those who’ve seen a lot of ’70s and ’80s B-movies and/or schlocky television from the same era. In sum, Sidewinder 1 exists, and that’s about as praiseworthy a remark as one can make. Michal Parks, grumpy and taciturn as always, stars as competitive rider J.M. Wyatt, whose career opportunities have dwindled because of his age and his attitude. J.M. receives an overture from businessman Packard Gentry (Alex Cord), who wishes to create and market a new motorcycle called the Sidewinder 1, employing J.M. as his spokesman and test driver. J.M. agrees to the deal, but only if he gets an ownership stake and permission to redesign the prototype.

          Concurrently, Packard hires a support team including a second driver, hotheaded Digger (Marjoe Gortner), and everybody clashes with Packard’s sister, Chris (Susan Howard), who regards the Sidewinder 1 as a frivolous investment. Complications ensue. None of them is particularly interesting, and because the movie’s budget was obviously meager, the big stunts that are meant to punctuate the action aren’t all that big. (At its worst, the movie includes a shot of a character screaming in a freeze-frame while sound effects imply the horrific crash the filmmakers didn’t have the means to capture on camera.) Every so often, a character tosses off a salty line (one racer says to another, “When the gate drops, the bullshit stops, bucko”), and there’s a strong cheese factor thanks to the original songs on the soundtrack, which are performed by future “I Love a Rainy Night” country/pop star Eddie Rabbit. Still, it’s hard to get past the acting triad of Cord, who tries too hard; Gortner, who tries way too hard; and Parks, who doesn’t try hard enough. Their respective qualities of incompetence and/or indifference suit this cheaply made and mindlessly conceived picture’s utterly generic vibe.

Sidewinder 1: FUNKY

The Evictors (1979)

Low-budget filmmaker Charles B. Pierce was relentless about trying to recapture the success of his first movie, The Legend of Boggy Creek (1972), a backwoods monster movie that was shamelessly sold as a true story, even though it wasn’t. For instance, Pierce’s last flick of the ’70s, The Evictors, wasn’t a true story either, despite hype to the contrary. Set in Louisiana circa 1942 (with extensive flashbacks to the same area in 1928), The Evictors employs the scary premise of displaced psychos tormenting the current residents of the psychos’ former home. Unfortunately, the movie is far less interesting than the concept. To the dismay of viewers suckered by the spooky poster and trailer, The Evictors comprises an hour of boring preamble and about 30 minutes of underwhelming climax. Like Pierce’s other Southern-fried shockers, the picture has atmospheric widescreen cinematography and decent production design, but there isn’t enough narrative to sustain a feature. The picture begins with a sepia-toned flashback of cops trying to evict rednecks from an attractive rural home in 1928. Bloodshed ensues. Cut to 1942, when newlyweds Ben Watkins (Michael Parks) and Ruth Watkins (Jessica Harper) decide to buy the house from overly solicitous realtor Jake Rudd (Vic Morrow). For the next hour, Ruth grows worried based on cryptic written threats and the resulting vague suspicions. (The acting in The Evictors is exactly as lifeless as the material deserves, though cult-fave starlet Harper is a uniquely vulnerable presence in any context.) To get a sense of how ineptly Pierce tries to build tension, consider the bit where Ruth walks into her property’s barn, looks directly at a group of chickens, then yelps when one of the chickens hops off the ground. Pierce tries to jack up moments like these with spooky music, but the sum effect is still ridiculous. Occasionally, the movie livens up with a grisly flashback—as when someone gets murdered with a horseshoe attached to the end of a stick—and, of course, when “the evictors” finally show up at the end of the movie, a few minutes of chasing and running and screaming occur. This is followed by a head-scratcher of a “twist” ending.

The Evictors: LAME

The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover (1977)

          The most startling thing about The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover is that it’s not particularly startling. Presented as an exposé of the legendary lawman who led the FBI from 1935 to 1972, writer-producer-director Larry Cohen’s docudrama compiles a portrait that’s equal parts gossip and history, but never quite commits to a viewpoint. For instance, the movie dramatizes the rumors that Hoover was gay—an explosive revelation if true, given the G-Man’s willingness to blackmail political figures with evidence of their sexual habits—but Cohen never takes a firm position on whether Hoover and his longtime assistant, Clyde Tolson, were lovers, as many suspected. Similarly, Cohen shows that Hoover was merciless in his crusade against communists, to the point of obsessive paranoia, but Cohen also presents giants including Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. as being equally devious. This makes Hoover seem less unique and therefore less worthy of examination. Furthermore, Cohen’s biggest narrative leap—depicting Hoover’s alleged use of material in his “secret files” for blackmail purposes—merely rehashes familiar facts such as the Kennedy family’s association with mobster Sam Giancana. Sure, it took balls for Cohen to make this movie just five years after Hoover’s death, but the lack of a strong perspective makes The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover muddled, even though it’s brisk and entertaining.
          While Cohen’s filmmaking is as sloppy as ever, that’s all to the good in this context; shaky cinematography and ugly lighting create a sense of footage captured on the fly, suiting the spy-game milieu. However, iffy performances dull the intended impact. Star Broderick Crawford, a 1949 Oscar winner for All the King’s Men, was far from his prime when he made this picture. Large and unhealthy-looking, he sometimes seems like he’s being filmed during a rehearsal, because his acting is weirdly disconnected. (That said, he springs to life during a tense scene with fellow veteran Celeste Holm, whose character attempts to seduce Hoover.) Thanks to the film’s choppy editing, tracking the arcs of supporting characters is challenging—people are introduced poorly and then disappear for long stretches—but a couple of actors figure prominently. Dan Dailey is somewhat bland as Tolson, but Michael Parks delivers a colorful turn as Bobby Kennedy, and Rip Torn lends cynical edge as a G-Man who tangles with Hoover. (Others in the large cast include Howard Da Silva, José Ferrer, John Marley, and Lloyd Nolan.) Ultimately, The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover is middling, but it’s noteworthy as the most serious-minded entry in Cohen’s filmography, which is dominated by cheerfully trashy drive-in fare. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover: FUNKY

ffolkes (1979)

          Midway through his tenure playing a certain suave secret agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Roger Moore was probably itching to do something different—which might explain why he attacks the leading role in this entertaining British thriller with ferocity noticeably absent from his acting in the 007 movies. Portraying an eccentric operative named Rufus Excalibur ffolkes (two lower-case letters at the beginning of the last name, thank you very much), Moore upends nearly every aspect of his James Bond characterization. Instead of a nightlife-loving rake, ffolkes is a recluse who prefers his cats to the company of women, and instead of being a charming sophisticate, he’s a tactless snob. Furthermore, rather than being a superhero capable of doing virtually anything, ffolkes is a specialist in just one tactic: underwater commando attacks.

          Thus, when three oil rigs located off the English coast get overtaken by terrorists, the British government knocks on the door of ffolkes’ castle—literally, because he lives in a decaying stone edifice—asking for help. Thereafter, the movie delivers tightly coiled excitement as the commandoes sneak onto the oil rigs with stealthy weapons like harpoons and knives, seeking to thwart the baddies before hostages are killed and the rigs are demolished with explosives. Written by Jack Davies from his own novel Esther, Ruth & Jennifer (the code names of the oil rigs), this picture was released as North Sea Hijack in the UK during 1979 before creeping onto American screens in early 1980 with the new title ffolkes. Although it didn’t do much business at the box office, it found a welcoming home on pay cable—and, as it turns out, ffolkes is nicely suited for home viewing.

          A brisk, workmanlike thriller with an entertaining mixture of bitchy banter and high-seas action, the movie has just enough zing in terms of production value and star power to feel like a major motion picture, but it’s so contained and straightforward it might as well be the pilot for a TV series. In fact, Moore is such a delight as ffolkes that it’s a shame no further adventures featuring the character were filmed: By the end of the movie, the character is so solidly established he could have swam the high seas for years afterward, foiling evildoers who dared to sully the world’s waters.

          Much of the credit for the picture’s Saturday-matinee vibe goes to director Andrew V. McLaglen, whose previous collaboration with Moore, The Wild Geese (1978), was another escapist winner. McLaglen and Moore are aided an efficient supporting cast, led by Anthony Perkins as the main hijacker—with typical aplomb, he weaves humor and perversity into a woefully underwritten role, and the dirty looks he and Moore exchange in their fleeting moments together are worth the price of admission. James Mason adds gravitas as the military official supervising ffolkes’ team of frogmen, while B-movie fave Michael Parks appears as Perkins’ principal henchman.

ffolkes: GROOVY

Breakthrough (1979)

          Watching Richard Burton’s physical decline had been a spectator sport since the mid-’60s, when the ravages of his alcoholism really started to become evident, so by the late ’70s it was mostly just depressing to watch the once-virile actor sleepwalk through lame movies looking like the ghost of his former self. In the World War II thriller Breakthrough, Burton looks especially desiccated, an effect only worsened by the enervated feel of the whole project. A quasi-sequel to the Sam Peckinpah war story Cross of Iron (1977), this picture eschews the moral ambiguity of Peckinpah’s picture for old-fashioned melodrama about a good German trying to help the Americans win the war.

          In 1944, after the Nazis have suffered insurmountable losses in Russia, a German general (Curt Jurgens) joins a cabal of officers planning to kill Hitler and then negotiate peace, so he asks freethinking soldier Rolf Steiner (Burton) to convey information about the plan to Allied officers. Steiner connects with a sympathetic American colonel (Robert Mitchum), who then involves his superior officer (Rod Steiger). However fate intervenes, as does an odious Nazi (Helmut Griem) unwilling to acknowledge that the war is already lost.

          Everyone in this movie looks bored and disconnected, so each actor gives an isolated performance that director Andrew V. McLaglen doesn’t even bother to unify with the other performances. Burton spits out lines quickly, like he can’t wait to walk off camera and drink; Mitchum delivers dialogue flatly, as if he’s simply repeating words that were fed to him before the camera rolled; and Steiger bludgeons his scenes with characteristic bulging-vein intensity. The only moments that have flair are the buddy-movie exchanges between the lead characters and their second-in-command guys (Burton has Klaus Lowitsch and Mitchum has Michael Parks).

          To say that Breakthrough gets off to a slow start is an understatement: The first half-hour of the movie is borderline unwatchable because nothing happens. Steiner doesn’t even get hip to the big plan until the picture is well underway, and then, when things are supposed to get exciting, somnambulistic acting and rote combat scenes add up to tedium.

          It’s amazing that just a year before shooting this turkey, Burton and McLaglen collaborated on the robust action picture The Wild Geese (1978), but apparently their efforts shouldn’t be judged entirely on the evidence of the existing version of Breakthrough. After being released in Europe in 1979, the picture went through several edits (and titles) before limping onto a few American screens in 1982. The currently available version runs a scant 95 minutes (the original was closer to two hours), and the only thing more ghastly than the print quality is the amateurish music score. Given the lifeless performances, however, it’s hard to imagine than any amount of post-production sweetening could have turned this misbegotten flick into something special.

Breakthrough: LAME