Ransom for a Dead Man (1971)

          On its own merits, the made-for-TV crime picture Ransom for a Dead Man is an enjoyable if somewhat far-fetched story about a murderess trapped by the complications of her attempt at committing the perfect crime. The title refers to her main gimmick—killing her husband, then pretending he was kidnapped and using doctored audio recordings to create the illusion of his voice delivering ransom demands while police are present to hear the phone call. Playing the murderess is the highly capable Lee Grant. She conveys nefarious duplicity while her character acts the victim, and she unleashes nastiness when her character pushes a stepdaughter out of the way so the murderess can claim her dead husband’s fortune. Still, Ransom for a Dead Man emphasizes plot over characterization, and the filmmakers never bother to humanize the murderess. So why bother talking about this picture? Because the police officer who finally traps the murderess is none other than Lieutenant Frank Columbo of the LAPD.

          As played by Peter Falk in dozens of TV movies spanning 1971 to 2003, Columbo is one of the most popular crime-fighters in small-screen history, even though he never appeared in a proper weekly series. The reasons for his popularity are plainly evident throughout Ransom for a Dead Man, and, in fact, Grant’s character explicitly describes the investigator’s unique methodology in a monologue, detailing how Columbo disarms suspects by pretending to be absent-minded, gullible, and simple, even though he’s remarkably clever, observant, and shrewd. Ransom for a Dead Man is such a thorough introduction to Columbo that even the character’s famous rumpled raincoat makes its first appearance here. Yet in some ways, Ransom for a Dead Man isn’t the ideal template for the many Columbo adventures that followed, seeing as how the lieutenant employs a civilian to execute a dangerous and legally questionable sting operation as the final trap for snaring the resourceful murderess. To find a pristine example of Columbo’s sleuthing, it’s best to check out the character’s next appearance and the first official episode of the recurring telefilm series, Murder by the Book, which broadcast later in 1971. The pedigree of that one explains why it’s so good: Steven Bochco wrote the script and Steven Spielberg directed.

          Getting back to Ransom for a Dead Man, you’ll note that the phrase “pilot episode” has not yet been used. Like a Columbo mystery, this gets tricky. Originally played by Bert Freed, Columbo first appeared in “Enough Rope,” a 1960 episode of The Chevy Mystery Show. The episode’s writers, Richard Levinson and William Link, repurposed the character for their play Prescription: Murder, which in turn became a 1968 TV movie with Falk as a less disheveled version of Columbo. Therefore it wasn’t until Ransom for a Dead Man that the version of Columbo beloved by generations of TV fans made his debut, raincoat and all.

Ransom for a Dead Man: FUNKY

Husbands (1970)

          Actor/director John Cassavetes’ cycle of semi-improvised movies reached a new level with Husbands, a showpiece for the acting of Casssavetes and his pals Peter Falk and Ben Gazzara. By melding his signature style of spontaneous performance with the specific energies of established screen personalities, Cassavetes achieved a noteworthy synthesis of Hollywood artifice and verité grunginess. Yet while the picture is historically significant as a formative step for the burgeoning indie-cinema aesthetic—of which Cassavetes is now considered the de facto godfather—Husbands is an acquired taste. Like all of the director’s improv-driven pictures, Husbands is an overlong and repetitive survey of unappealing behavior, presenting endless scenes of self-involved people groping with language and violent physicality as they strive to articulate petty anxieties. The problem, as always, is that Cassavetes fails to explore his fascinations in a balanced way, so there’s no real context around the characters. Thus, viewers are subjected to a world in which men have tacit license to follow every whim, no matter how injurious the results might be to other people—and yet viewers are expected to sympathize with these boors.

          The story is so simple that the film could (and should) have run 90 minutes instead of nearly 140. After a close friend dies of a sudden heart attack, buddies Frank (Falk), Gus (Cassavetes), and Harry (Gazzara) go on a drunken bender as they wrestle with the shocking reminder of their mortality. The first half of the movie comprises the pals meandering from the funeral to various New York dives, drinking and singing and whining all the way. The second half of the picture begins when Harry fights with his wife and impulsively decides to fly to England. Concerned for Harry’s emotional welfare, Frank and Gus tag along, so the pals end up in a London hotel with three women they pick up in a bar. And so it goes from there, up until the inconclusive ending.

          Fans of Cassavetes’ work generally single out the freshness of the acting as a core virtue, but the performances by the three leads in Husbands hardly seem praiseworthy. While it’s true that Cassavetes, Falk, and Gazzara generate verisimilitude by channeling the sloppy way real people move and talk, there’s a reason screen acting generally involves shrinking normal human behavior down to illustrative indicators—watching “real” people in real time is boring. And that, from my perspective, is the best possible adjective for describing Husbands. Sure, critics have spent decades talking about how the picture captures the unchained id of the male animal, blah-blah-blah, and there’s a kernel of truth within that interpretation. After all, the characters in Husbands are as likely to break down in tears as they are to physically and/or verbally abuse women, so there’s nothing flattering in the picture Cassavetes paints. Whether there’s anything interesting in the picture, however, is another matter.

Husbands: FUNKY

A Woman Under the Influence (1974)

          I wish I could see the qualities in John Cassavetes’ work that are so obvious to his admirers, but having watched most of the major pictures in the writer-director’s revered canon, I’m hung up on a few things. First, why are the movies so self-indulgently long and repetitive? I get the idea of trying to capture reality in all of its messy rhythms, but since Cassavetes edited his raw footage, why didn’t he keep editing until scenes become concise? Did he really believe everything his actors did was interesting? Furthermore, isn’t there something inherently precious about the whole concept of “capturing reality” anyway, seeing as how Cassavetes’ movies feature actors? How true can pretending be? Finally, why are so many of Cassavetes’ pictures filled with wall-to-wall ugliness? The implication seems to be that the only genuine characters are those who are perpetually at each other’s throats for craven reasons.

          Anyway, I gave up trying to enjoy Cassavetes’ movies a while ago, even though I admire his integrity; there’s no question he showed nerve by shunning nearly everything one associates with Hollywood filmmaking, from brisk pacing to smooth camerawork to tidy resolutions. Consider: Around the time A Woman Under the Influence was made, actresses including Ellen Burstyn and Joanne Woodward were using their influence to make Hollywood movies featuring themes similar to those found in A Woman Under the Influence. Yet while the Hollywood productions starring Burstyn and Woodward offered crisp explanations for why certain women behave erratically, Cassavetes simply depicted a woman succumbing to unnamed mental difficulties, leaving the viewer as bewildered as the afflicted woman’s loved ones.

          Is one approach better than the other? Who’s to say?

          Cassavetes’ wife, Gena Rowlands, plays Mabel, a Los Angeles housewife and the mother of three young children. Her husband, Nick (Peter Falk), supervises a municipal road crew, so he’s often called away unexpectedly. When the story begins, one of Nick’s sudden absences knocks Mabel out of balance, so she cycles through several types of odd behavior. She forgets facts she should know well, like the names of Nick’s co-workers; she flirts recklessly and even brings a stranger home one night; she explodes into screaming rages; and she humiliates Nick by creating scenes in front of his family and friends. As in most of Cassavetes’ movies, these events are shown in long, shapeless scenes filled with seemingly improvised discursions the camera captures with blurry, documentary-style fluidity.

          Rowlands gives a committed performance, but whether her acting choices feel authentic or forced is open to debate. (The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences praised her work with an Oscar nomination for Best Actress.) For me, however, Falk’s characterization is a greater stumbling block than Rowlands’. Watching him berate and lie to his wife, hearing him threaten to kill his own children and those of his neighbor, and seeing him slap Rowlands to the ground on two occasions, I kept wondering why everyone in the movie regarded Rowlands’ character as a lunatic. But then again, maybe that’s why I can’t find a place for myself in Cassavetes’ cinematic world. Between the rampant misogyny and the tiresome preoccupation with unmotivated anger, the director’s vision seems to be focused myopically on the worst parts of the human experience. 

A Woman Under the Influence: FUNKY

Murder by Death (1976)

          Because Murder by Death is a silly riff on vintage detective stories, it’s tempting to think the picture was intended to mimic Mel Brooks’ crowd-pleasing style of throwback spoofery, although it’s just as possible the film merely rode a mid-’70s boom in nostalgic crime films. Whatever the motivation for making the picture, the result is the same—Murder by Death is goofy but uninspired, a harmless romp that never quite achieves liftoff. Fans of detective stories will, of course, get more out of the picture than anyone else, because the film’s characters are gentle caricatures of famous literary sleuths. Casual viewers might simply enjoy the star power of the cast and the occasional glimpses of screenwriter Neil Simon’s signature wit. But, alas, this is a minor effort for everyone involved.

          The plot isn’t really worth describing, since it’s just a perfunctory contrivance, but the gist is that a mysterious millionaire named Lionel Twain (played by author/TV personality Truman Capote) invites a coterie of detectives to his estate and challenges them to investigate a murder that will take place during the detectives’ visit. Whoever solves the crime will get $1 million. The detectives include Dick and Dora Charleston (David Niven and Maggie Smith), based on Nick and Nora Charles from the Thin Man movies; Sam Diamond (Peter Falk), based on Maltese Falcon hero Sam Spade; Jessica Marbles (Elsa Lanchester), based on Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple character; Milo Perrier (James Coco), based on Christie’s Hercule Poiroit; and Sidney Wang (Peter Sellers), based on Charlie Chan.

          Obviously, any film that attempts to put these diverse characters together isn’t striving for consistency or credibility—the Spade-esque character emanates from hard-boiled fiction, for instance, whereas the Thin Man types emerge from a bubbly light-comedy milieu. Rather, Simon and producer Ray Stark (abetted by undistinguished director Robert Moore) concentrate on stringing sight gags and verbal zingers together. Unfortunately, none of the humor is memorable, and the actors give such cartoonish performances that Murder by Death feels juvenile. Falk probably comes off the best, since his version of Sam Spade is fairly close to his Columbo role from TV, and Falk’s rat-a-tat interplay with his secretary, Tess (Eileen Brennan), has some energy. In sum, Murder by Death is exactly as clever and funny as its title, which is to say not very.

Murder by Death: FUNKY

The Cheap Detective (1978)

          Yet another of the myriad film-noir spoofs that proliferated during the ’70s, The Cheap Detective is surprisingly underwhelming given its all-star cast and brand-name writer. Neil Simon, opting for broad farce instead of his usual domestic dramedy, weaves together storylines and stylistic tropes from assorted ’40s detective movies, mostly those starring Humphrey Bogart. Peter Falk stars as Lou Peckinpaugh, a San Francisco private eye who gets embroiled in a plot that’s a little bit Casablanca, a little bit Maltese Falcon, and a little bit of everything else. His partner gets killed, villains search for a cache of super-sized diamonds, and Lou juggles romantic intrigue with several dizzy dames. The movie’s gags are so silly that characters have names like Betty DeBoop, Jasper Blubber, and Jezebel Dezire.

          Based on this movie and Neil Simon’s other noir spoof from the same era starring Peter Falk, 1976’s Murder by Death, one gets the impression that Simon was trying to outdo Mel Brooks at the anything-goes approach to lampooning movie genres, but Simon simply couldn’t match the inspired lunacy that made Brooks’ spoofs so delirious. By trying to keep dialogue crisp and plotting rational, Simon’s attempt at this style falls somewhere between the extremes of proper storytelling and wild abandon. Thus, The Cheap Detective is fluffy without being truly irreverent and goofy without being truly insane—it’s like a second-rate Carol Burnett Show sketch, needlessly extended to feature length. What’s more, the movie is hurt by flat direction, as TV-trained helmer Robert Moore lacks the ability to generate exciting visuals.

          Yet another problem is the all-over-the-map acting. The most enjoyable performances, by Falk and supporting players Eileen Brennan, Stockard Channing, Madeline Kahn, and Fernando Lamas, wink at the audience without tipping into Borscht Belt excess. The most tiresome turns, by players including Ann-Margret, James Coco, Dom DeLuise, and Marsha Mason, fall into exactly that trap. (Though it must be said that Sid Caesar kills during one of the movie’s dumbest scenes, thanks to his legendary comic timing.) Some actors, however, seem completely adrift: Louise Fletcher, John Houseman, and Nicol Williamson strive to find consistent tonalities for their work, apparently receiving little guidance from Moore or the slapdash script. With this much talent involved, The Cheap Detective has a few bright spots, but the total package is quite blah.

The Cheap Detective: FUNKY

The In-Laws (1979)

          One of the most beloved comedies of the late ’70s, The In-Laws is a study in controlled lunacy. Working from an immaculate screenplay by Andrew Bergman, who previously wrote the script that became Blazing Saddles (1974), director Arthur Hiller orchestrates a beautiful slow burn as the movie’s central gag gets taken to more and more absurd extremes. However, what really plops The In-Laws into the comedy sweet spot is the interaction between stars Alan Arkin and Peter Falk; while their everyman-vs.-lunatic dynamic is nothing new, both actors pitch their performances perfectly. So, while The In-Laws is too silly and slight to qualify as a classic, it’s completely enjoyable. In fact, many fans rank it among the funniest movies ever made—and when the movie’s really cooking, especially during a laugh-filled excursion from New Jersey to South America, it’s hard to disagree with that assessment.

          The story begins when motor-mouthed weirdo Vincent J. Ricardo (Falk) enters the life of uptight New York dentist Sheldon Kornpett (Arkin), because Vincent’s son is about to marry Sheldon’s daughter. On their first meeting, a dinner at Sheldon’s house, Vincent comes across as a loon prone to mood swings and outrageous lies; his story about seeing tsetse flies large enough to pluck children off the ground suggests Vincent’s not quite firing on all cylinders. Thanks to a few wild plot twists, Vincent shanghais Sheldon into a scheme involving stolen U.S. Mint engraving plates, a covert CIA operation (which may not be a real CIA operation), an illicit deal with an insane South American general, and a cheerfully bizarre plane ride on Wong Airlines.

          What makes The In-Laws so fun is the way Sheldon’s blind terror at being shot at complements Vincent’s easygoing attitude toward international intrigue—even in the most dangerous situations, like a crazed backwards car chase, Vincent pauses to compliment Shelton for keeping his cool, even though Sheldon’s perpetually on the verge of an aneurysm. Arkin is wonderful here, adding welcome vulnerability to his sometimes-chilly screen persona, and Falk is a riot. Time and again, Falk scores with deadpan readings of Bergman’s fine-tuned zingers. For instance, it’s hard to envision anyone but Falk selling the bit in which Vincent explains the benefit program available to covert agents, adding, “The trick is staying alive—that’s really the key to the benefit program.”

          The scheme that drives the movie’s story is a wafer-thin contrivance, the extended sequence with comedy pro Richard Libertini as the nutty general gets a little too goofy, and ace supporting players like Ed Begley Jr., Nancy Dussault, and James Hong are underused, but these are minor quibbles, since the best moments in The In-Laws are priceless.

The In-Laws: GROOVY

Mikey and Nicky (1976)

          This hyper-realistic crime drama should hit my ’70s art-cinema sweet spot: It’s a quiet character piece about low-level hoods, grounded in energetic performances by two creative actors with a long offscreen history. It’s also a novelty as the only drama helmed by the great Elaine May, best known for her work in the realm of sophisticated light comedy. So, why doesn’t Mikey and Nicky work for me? In a word: Cassavetes. I realize it’s heresy to criticize the father of American indie cinema, but Cassavetes’ onscreen persona was grating at the best of times, and he’s downright insufferable here. It’s not just that he’s playing a pain-in-the-ass character; the problem is that Cassavetes treats every scene like an acting-class exercise, spinning into seemingly improvised riffs and repeating dialogue over and over again, presumably while awaiting the “inspiration” to say something different. Actors may find this stuff endlessly fascinating, but there’s a reason films usually capture results instead of process—nobody needs to see the sausage getting made.

          As the writer-director of this sloppy enterprise, May has to take the blame for letting her leading man run away with the movie to such an extent that Mikey and Nicky feels like one of Cassavetes’ own directorial endeavors. It’s a shame May didn’t exercise more discipline, since the premise could have led to something exciting. Small-time crook Nicky (Cassavetes) is convinced he’s on a Mafia hit list, so he reaches out to his long-suffering best friend, Mikey (Peter Falk)—and that early moment is when the story goes off the rails. It’s never clear what Nicky wants from Mikey, except perhaps companionship, since Nicky shoots down every suggestion Mikey makes for avoiding danger. Instead of running to safety, Nicky drags Mikey along for an evening of boozing and whoring, with more than a few pit stops for childish tantrums and emotional meltdowns. Nicky’s behavior is so obnoxious that it’s tempting to cheer when Mikey finally asks the obvious question: “Don’t you have any notion of anything that goes on outside your own head?”

          Appraising May’s contributions to Mikey and Nicky is almost impossible, since she seems like a passive observer capturing Cassvaetes’ tempestuous “genius” on film; stylistically, there’s nothing recognizable here from May’s other pictures. And befitting its on-the-fly nature, Mikey and Nicky is fraught with technical errors. In one scene, a boom operator is plainly visible in the mirror of a hotel room supposedly occupied only by the title characters. These amateur-hour mistakes are exacerbated by the fact that supporting actors including Ned Beatty, William Hickey, and M. Emmet Walsh are wasted in nothing roles. Mikey and Nicky gets all sorts of credit for trying to be something, and doubtless many discerning viewers will find admirable qualities. However, if there’s any great redeeming value buried in the self-indulgent muck, it was lost on me.

Mikey and Nicky: LAME

The Brink’s Job (1978)

Since director William Friedkin is mostly known for making intense pictures like The Exorcist (1973), it should come as no surprise to report that his occasional ventures into comedy aren’t among his most impressive achievements. So, even though The Brink’s Job has many of his trademarks (naturalistic acting, realistic locations) it fails in a rather significant regard: It’s not the least bit funny. Telling the real-life story of a group of brazen thieves who broke into a Brink’s building in late ’40s Boston and boosted almost $3 million, the picture is supposed to be a farce about a gang of nincompoops who slipped through cracks in the Brink’s security system, then became folk heroes once FBI director J. Edgar Hoover made catching them a top priority. Instead, it’s a good-looking but flat recitation of events involving people who aren’t admirable or interesting. The ensemble Friedkin assembled couldn’t be more appropriate for this sort of thing, with Peter Falk leading a gang that includes Peter Boyle, Allen Garfield (billed as Allen Goorwitz), Warren Oates, and Paul Sorvino, but they all play dull stereotypes: Falk is a cantankerous mastermind, Boyle is a hot-headed career criminal, Garfield is a simpering idiot, Oates is a shell-shocked war veteran eager to kill people, and Sorvino is a seen-it-all dandy who prefers jobs that don’t require him to get his hands dirty. The performances are fine, but they’re not specific enough to elevate the ho-hum screenplay by Walon Green; although some of Green’s dialogue has street-level authenticity, his narrative is plodding. Plenty of crime films have surmounted turgid narratives, however, so The Brink’s Job might have fared better if audiences hadn’t been told to expect laughs that the movie never delivers. (Available as part of the Universal Vault Series on Amazon.com)

The Brink’s Job: FUNKY