More Than Friends (1978)

          A charming rom-com piffle starring a pair of actors who were nearing the end of their real-life marriage, More Than Friends presents Penny Marshall and Rob Reiner as close friends who drift in and out of relationships with each other and with separate partners over the course of two decades. Acquaintances since childhood, the leading characters make their first halting attempt at getting together on the occasion of their graduation from high school. Thereafter, the pals move in different directions, with Marshall’s character pursuing an acting career while Reiner’s character becomes a writer. Through it all, he remains hung up on his childhood sweetheart, even though her ambitions to explore the world beyond the New York neighborhood where they grew up lead her to behave in fickle and insensitive ways. Although Reiner’s character is imperfect, prone to sarcasm and self-loathing, the notion is that he’s a grounded everyman while Marshall’s character has her head in the clouds.

          The vibe is set right from the beginning, with delightful romantic patter during a would-be makeout session. After Matty (Marshall) says she finds chrome-domed 1950s movie star Yul Brynner appealing, Alan (Reiner) indicates his own receding hairline, then pounces: “You stick with me, you’ll get all the sexy baldness you want!” Comic interplay with chewing gum further deglamorizes the scene, accentuating the idea of how awkward it is to get intimate with someone you already know well on a platonic level. Another key notion, that of working-class New Yorkers getting put in their place for having highfalutin goals, gets expressed in the scene where Matty’s mother scoffs at dreams of stardom: “You are not a special person,” she says to Matty. “You are less than average.” Ouch. One of the many strengths of the script, written by Reiner and Phil Mishkin, is that the main characters have dimensions beyond their archetypal qualities. By the end of the picture, they seem like real people—or as real as people inside a foregone-conclusion rom-com can seem.

          Smoothly directed by TV-comedy icon James Burrows, the movie has a literary quality, with Reiner’s character providing retrospective voiceover that connects vignettes from different periods. Each major scene lingers just long enough for comic and dramatic effect, at which point the story zips ahead to the next significant juncture. Even though the story is completely predictable, every scene in More Than Friends is entertaining or heartfelt, if not both. And while the picture is rarely laugh-out-loud funny, some bits are delicious. Howard Hesseman is great in a small role as a pretentious theater director, and Michael McKean—at the time, Marshall’s costar on Laverne & Shirley—has a killer sequence as a ridiculous folksinger. That particular bit presages the beloved musical satires that McKean later made with Reiner and with Christopher Guest.

More Than Friends: GROOVY

Halls of Anger (1970)

          Years after Sidney Poitier blazed a path by playing righteously indignant African-American characters whose noble behavior shatters prejudice, the far less impressive actor Calvin Lockhart followed in Poitier’s footsteps by starring in this clunky but entertaining social drama about the forced integration of a primarily black school in Los Angeles. Lockhart, who cuts a handsome figure but twists dialogue in such a peculiar and stilted fashion that he’s unintentionally comical, plays Quincy Davis, a black teacher who escaped the ghetto for a job at a suburban school with white students. When redistricting integrates a tough school, officials recruit Quincy to become the school’s new vice principal—and to be the de facto ambassador between racial factions. Everything springing from this contrived scenario is as predictable as you might expect. Quincy clashes with the white principal, who feels black students should be herded like animals instead of treated like people. The angriest black student, J.T. (James A. Watson Jr.), decides to make an example of a white student, Doug (Jeff Bridges), by dragging Doug into fistfights. Meanwhile, Quincy heroically inspires black and white students alike to take their education seriously, employing such unconventional practices as getting male students excited about reading by introducing them to the sexy passages in D.H. Lawrence’s books.

          Halls of Anger also features such tired tropes as a basketball-game showdown between J.T. and Quincy—because, in the limited imaginations of the filmmakers behind Halls of Anger, all black men settle arguments with games of hoops—and a race riot that Quincy quells with his MLK-style homilies of nonviolence and understanding. Chances are that Halls of Anger already felt behind the times during its original release, and the movie seems positively primitive today. Nonetheless, it’s hard to actively dislike the picture, because it means well in a clumsy sort of way. Plus, for every weak element—including a cornball music score that makes onscreen events feel as frivolous as comic-book panels—there’s a redeeming quality. Chief among those redeeming qualities, of course, is the presence of Bridges, appearing in one of his very first features; although he doesn’t get an enormous amount of screen time, Bridges elevates his scenes with intensity and naturalism. Future TV stars Ed Asner and Rob Reiner appear in small roles, and DeWayne Jessie—best known for fronting the fictional R&B band Otis Day & the Knights in Animal House (1979)—contributes an enjoyable turn as a student whose education Quincy turns around.

Halls of Anger: FUNKY

Thursday’s Game (1974)

          The first feature-length narrative written by Mary Tyler Moore Show guy James L. Brooks—who later conquered the big screen with Terms of Endearment (1983) and other films—the TV movie Thursday’s Game is a funny, insightful, and warm study of an everyman in crisis. Gene Wilder, operating at the height of his powers, plays Harry Evers, the producer of a low-rated daytime TV quiz show based in New York. For the past four years, Harry and his pal, clothier Marvin Ellison (Bob Newhart), have been part of a casual weekly poker game with several friends.

          One night, despite worries that his job is in danger, Harry agrees to make the game more exciting by playing for big cash, and he wins a major haul—only to have his “friends,” except for Marvin, say they’re unwilling to pay their debts. A fistfight ensues, which is an amusing spectacle because Newhart and Wilder look ridiculous trying to trade punches with fellow working stiffs, but Harry and Marvin bond during the brawl. Thus, they decide to continue meeting every Thursday for boys’ nights. Then, when the inevitable happens and Harry gets fired, he uses the Thursday getaways to escape home pressures once his wife, Lynn (Ellen Burstyn), starts pushing him to find another job or at least sign up for unemployment, which Harry considers humiliating.

          What unfolds from this relatable scenario is surprising and touching, because Harry goes nuts watching Marvin follow the opposite trajectory—Marvin achieves business success even as his marriage to Lois (Cloris Leachman) crumbles. Thursday’s Game plays to all of Brooks’ strengths, allowing the writer-producer to gently satirize careerism, male ego, marital politics, and other issues. Brooks clearly defines each character, even those who drift in and out of the story quickly, and his script is filled with great one-liners and memorable bits. In one of the film’s funniest scenes, Harry has an infuriating showdown with his agent (Rob Reiner), who reveals he didn’t actually know he was Harry’s agent during the last several years—even though he collected 10 percent of Harry’s salary the whole time.

          Director Robert Moore wisely stays out of Brooks’ way, letting the expert script and marvelous actors dominate. The cast is filled with people who made ’70s TV lively, including Norman Fell, Valerie Harper, and Nancy Walker in addition to those already mentioned, and each performer contributes a new, sardonic flavor to the mix. Wilder is wonderful, reeling back his tendency toward overacting but still providing a few of his signature slow-burn moments; Newhart strikes a droll balance of likeable insecurity and tentative swagger; and Burstyn grounds the film with a potent dramatic performance as a woman torn between devotion and the need for honesty. Particularly given its ignoble release—Thursday’s Game was shot in 1971 but not aired until 1974—this is a rewarding comedy that deserves to be seen by many more people.

Thursday’s Game: GROOVY

Fire Sale (1977)

At his best, Alan Arkin is a one-of-a-kind actor who blends humor, intelligence, and sensitivity into vibrant performances. At his worst, he’s a screamer whose characterizations are abrasive in the extreme. Unfortunately, Fire Sale—the second theatrical feature Arkin directed—plays to his worst instincts on every level. Arkin’s acting in the lead role is loud and whiny, he lets other actors deliver numbingly overwrought performances, the film’s jokes are insultingly stupid, and every character is so unpleasant that even at 88 minutes (including a lengthy animated title sequence) the movie goes on way too long. One of those “madcap” comedies about a bunch of people whose insane behavior collides in an allegedly humorous fashion, Fire Sale stars Arkin and Rob Reiner as the sons of an aging Jewish retailer (Vincent Gardenia). Arkin is a ne’er-do-well high school basketball coach, and Reiner is the heir apparent of the family’s foundering department store. Various subplots involve Arkin’s offensive scheme to “adopt” a black teenager who can serve as a ringer for his basketball team, Reiner’s plan to burn down the family business for an insurance settlement, and crazy uncle Sid Caesar’s escape from a mental institution to conduct a military mission because he thinks it’s still World War II. Despite the presence of so many comedy pros, Fire Sale somehow manages to be completely obnoxious and unrelentingly boring at the same time. Thanks to competent technical execution, it’s not the worst comedy of the ’70s by a long shot, but it’s still truly unwatchable.

Fire Sale: SQUARE