1980 Week: Altered States

          Unquestionably one of the trippiest movies ever released by a Hollywood studio, the sci-fi/horror saga Altered States was an odd swan song for Paddy Chayefsky. Following a celebrated career during which his melodramas and social satires earned the writer three Oscars—for Marty (1955), The Hospital (1971), and Network (1976)—Chayefsky penned his first and only novel, Altered States (1978). Suggested by the experiments of “psychonaut” John C. Lilly, who used hallucinogens and sensory-deprivation tanks to explore the furthest recesses of the human mind, Altered States was a far cry from Chayefky’s usual fare.

          Nonetheless, Chayefsky wrote the screen adaptation of his own book and prepared to make the movie with director Arthur Penn. Disagreements pushed Penn off the project, and his replacement was Ken Russell, a British maverick known for boundary-pushing imagery and puerile fascinations. Chayefsky didn’t click with Russell, either, but this time it was the writer who left the project, replacing his name on the script with a pseudonym. Watching Altered States, it’s possible to see why Chayefsky distanced himself from the movie—which is forever on the verge of self-parody—and yet it’s also possible to see what made the underlying material so fascinating in the first place. The protagonist of Altered States tries to scientifically identify the fundamental nature of the human species.

          Psychology professor Edward Jessup (William Hurt) spends time in sensory-deprivation tanks, treating his visits like exploratory journeys into the outer realms of consciousness. Even as he clumsily attempts to build a “normal” life with a beautiful colleague named Emily (Blair Brown), Edward remains obsessed with his research. That’s why he follows a lead and visits South America, consuming a powerful drug that elicits mind-expanding hallucinations. Returning to the U.S., Edward combines the drug and the sensory-deprivation tank, with shocking results.

          By about halfway through its running time, Altered States becomes an out-and-out fantasy film, complete with elaborate special effects. Seeing as how the picture is loaded with hyper-articulate dialogue and persuasive scientific jargon, the introduction of paranormal phenomena makes for a heady shift. Accordingly, many critics and viewers have dismissed Altered States as a lark with a great pedigree, even though it arguably belongs on the same continuum of existential sci-fi as 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Solaris (1972). Chayefsky’s style is evident, pseudonym be damned, because no one else writes lines like this one: “She prefers the senseless pain we inflict on each other to the pain we would otherwise inflict on ourselves—but I’m not afraid of that solitary pain.”

           Similarly, only Russell could manufacture the out-there imagery of Edward’s hallucinations: bloody bibles, mutant animals, spewing volcanoes, naked bodies transforming into sand sculptures that blow away when attacked by vicious winds. Composer John Corigliano, contributing his first-ever music score, energizes Russell’s crazy images with an extraordinary score defined by avant-garde flourishes, insinuating rhythms, and an almost primal energy. Vivid performances elevate the film, as well. Making his movie debut, theater-trained William Hurt channels his über-WASP persona into the spectacularly alive portrayal of a seeker chasing the one thing he finds hardest to grasp—true human connection. Blair Brown matches him in terms of intelligence and passion, while also adding a layer of sensuality, and costars Bob Balaban and Charles Haid lend comic relief playing, respectively, the believer and the skeptic in Edward’s social circle.

          Yet perhaps the most interesting aspect of Altered States is that whenever he’s not overseeing whackadoodle hallucination scenes, Russell provides crackerjack storytelling clarity. He handles dramatic scenes with restraint and taste, manufacturing fast but disciplined pacing. One can only imagine what shape Altered States would have taken if Chayefsky and Russell had been simpatico.

Altered States: GROOVY

The Hospital (1971)

          Speaking as a cineaste, a devotee of ’70s film, and a screenwriter, I’m about to commit an act of heresy by admitting that I don’t dig The Hospital, which netted Paddy Chayefsky one of his three writing Oscars. While I understand the use of dark satire to skewer the foibles of the medical industry—and, on a larger scale, the foibles of bureaucracy and capitalism run amok—I’ve watched The Hospital twice at very different times in my life, and on both occasions I’ve found the movie to be cold, pretentious, and tiresome. Seeing as how Chayefsky’s writing was singled out for praise, it’s possible my reaction stems from a problem of execution. Arthur Hiller’s sloppy camerawork and undisciplined dramaturgy prevents a clear point of view from coalescing, so he seems lost as the story zooms back and forth between tonalities.

          Proving that giving an ambitious Chayevsky script a pleasing shape wasn’t impossible, Sidney Lumet made a masterpiece from Chayefsky’s next opus, Network (1976). Many of the outrageous narrative maneuvers that make Network so wonderful are present in The Hospital, but they don’t work nearly as well. The omniscient narration, the religious allegory, the spectacular monologues—whereas these elements feel germane to the coherent lunacy of Network, they contribute to making The Hospital feel scattershot. The Hospital is not without its virtues, of course, because George C. Scott’s leading performance is impassioned, and the movie’s dialogue vibrates with Chayefsky’s unique blend of indignation and intellectualism (even though all of the characters sound identical). Furthermore, the best jabs at the medical industry land with tremendous impact. Taken as a whole, however, The Hospital is contrived, episodic, long-winded, and underwhelming.

          The picture is set at a fictional Manhattan hospital, which is perpetually surrounded by protestors, some of whom also work at the facility. Chief of Medicine Dr. Herbert Bock (Scott) is a suicidal drunk reeling from a divorce, and therefore emotionally unprepared for a series of crises. One by one, doctors and nurses start dying as a result of absurd mix-ups—injections given to the wrong patients, sick people pushed aside and “forgotten to death,” and so on. Herbert’s life takes a turn when he meets Barbara Drummond (Diana Rigg), the daughter of an eccentric patient. A hippie involved with Native American mysticism, she tries to remove her father from the hospital, sparking many debates about the efficacy of Herbert’s management. Other subplots include the travails of one Dr. Welbeck (Richard Dysart), a snobbish surgeon who has incorporated himself in order to prioritize money over medicine. All of these things come together in wild ways. A serial killer stalks the hospital’s halls. Herbert confesses self-destructive thoughts to a shrink, nearly injects himself with lethal chemicals, and overcomes impotence by raping Barbara.
          In one of the film’s least pleasing developments, Barbara interprets Herbert’s sexual assault as an act of love. Suffice to say the film is not as sharp on women’s issues as it is on economics and medical ethics.

          While The Hospital is all over the place in terms of mood and themes, Scott is incredible, even if the script requires him to exclaim “Oh, my God!” a few too many times, and the supporting cast is filled with lively players. Beyond Dysart and Rigg, The Hospital features Roberts Blossom, Stockard Channing, Stephen Elliot, Katherine Hellmond, Barnard Hughes, Nancy Marchand, Frances Sternhagen, and Robert Walden. Moreover, the movie has unquestionable literary quality, and it’s a meticulously researched examination of a worthy topic. Yet it’s also bewildering and strident and ugly. Still, what else could be expected from a self-proclaimed examination of “the whole wounded madness of our times”? Happily, Chayefsky found a perfect vessel for his op-ed rage in his next project.

The Hospital: FUNKY

Network (1976)

          There’s a reason why sophisticated contemporary screenwriters from Billy Ray to Aaron Sorkin bow at the feet of playwright-screenwriter Paddy Chayefsky, and the script that best exemplifies that reason is Network, Chayefsky’s audacious satire about a TV personality who becomes a pop-culture phenomenon by going insane while America watches. By the mid-’70s, Chayefsky was a veteran dramatist with credits dating back to the ’50s heyday of live TV, and his reputation was such that his words reached the screen more or less untouched. For Network, Chayefsky let loose with all of his literary powers, constructing an outrageous plot, symbolic characters, and wordplay so dense and dexterous that each monologue is like a high-wire act.

          Network is filled with such esoteric verbiage as “multivariate” and “sedentarian,” and the ideas the script presents are as elevated as the language. In the story, network-news anchorman Howard Beale (Peter Finch) gets sacked for low ratings, then responds by announcing on air that he plans to commit suicide. His stunt triggers a ratings spike, but concerns his deeply principled boss and best friend, news-division chief Max Schumacher (William Holden). An ambitious executive from the network’s entertainment division, Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway), sees an opportunity to exploit Beale’s breakdown. Backed by Frank Hackett (Robert Duvall), the omnivorous lieutenant of the corporation that just bought the network, Diana seizes control of the nightly news broadcast and turns it into a circus act featuring crazies like Howard and “Sybil the Soothsayer.”

          Concurrently, Diana makes a deal with a terrorist organization to film its insurrectionist crimes, so before long the network’s top two shows are the vulgar “news” show and the brazen “Mao Tse Tung Hour.” Firmly situated as the story’s drowned-out voice of reason, Max is briefly seduced by the lure of slick sensationalism—he ends up in Diana’s bed even though he’s married—but once he comes to his senses, all he can do is bear witness as primetime becomes a madhouse.

          Director Sidney Lumet, unobtrusively serving Chayefsky’s script, tells the story with methodical precision, orchestrating a handful of astonishing performances. Finch gets the showiest role, ranting through moments like the famous “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” speech; the actor died just before receiving an Oscar for the role. Holden, his once-gleaming features ravaged by years of drinking, is a vivid personification of an idealist-turned-cynic, and his runs through long speeches are as graceful as they are muscular. Dunaway, burdened with the most overtly symbolic characterization in the piece, is so chillingly soulless that she makes the contrivances of her role seem necessary and urgent. Duvall, adding an almost Biblical degree of rage to his previously muted screen persona, is layered and terrifying. And Ned Beatty, who pops in for a cameo as Duvall’s boss, blows away any memories of his usual bumbling characters by portraying a sociopathic corporate overlord.

          Network is filled with nervy scenes, like the vignette of network executives negotiating a contract with gun-toting terrorists, and the climax is thunderous. And although it comes awfully close, Network isn’t perfect; some scenes, like Max’s confrontation with his wronged wife (Beatrice Straight), are overwritten to mask their triteness, and Max’s final monologue to Diana summarizes the picture in a manner that’s contrived, obvious, and unnecessary. But even in that scene, arguably the most film’s laborious, Chayefsky’s language is intoxicating: In the course of excoriating the reductive nature of television, Max laments that “all of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality.” Especially since most of Chayefsky’s bleak predictions about television have come true since Network was released, this profound film has lost none of its elemental power.

Network: OUTTA SIGHT