Blume In Love (1973)

          No filmmaker captured the Me Decade more adroitly than Paul Mazursky, whose ’70s movies depict intersections between such things as hippie-era spiritualism, recreational drugs, and therapy sessions. During a streak that began with Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice in 1969 and continued through Willie & Phil in 1980, Mazursky told unconventional stories about wildly flawed people who both exploit and fall victim to cultural trends. Throughout this period, Mazursky also demonstrated special sensitivity for themes related to the Sexual Revolution. While An Unmarried Woman (1978) is the most famous of Masursky’s ’70s films because the picture tapped into the women’s-movement zeitgeist, Blume in Love tells a similar story from a different perspective—and with much more discipline.

          Both films begin with a marriage falling apart as a result of the husband’s adultery. An Unmarried Woman, obviously, examines the female point of view, tracking a character’s journey from humiliation to self-respect. Blume in Love explores what happens to a philanderer after he gets caught, adding in the seriocomic premise of a husband falling back in love with his wife the moment he loses her. Building a movie around a schmuck involves threading a very fine needle, but Mazursky is a writer-director of such supple skills that he comes as close to pulling off the trick as possible. The most interesting aspect of Blume in Love, however, is that it doesn’t ultimately matter whether viewers like the lead character; the goal of the film is simply to reveal enough aspects of the protagonist that he’s understood. As in the best of Mazursky’s movies, empathy is the order of the day.

          The picture begins in Italy, where bearded and morose Stephen Blume (George Segal) laments the recent dissipation of his marriage. In flashbacks, Mazursky tracks the arc of Stephen’s relationship with Nina (Susan Anspach), eventually taking the flashbacks up to Stephen’s departure for Italy. The whole movie, therefore, represents the thought process by which Stephen comes to grips with what he lost and learns to accept that the split was his fault. Mazursky pulls no punches in his portrayal of Stephen as a self-serving son of a bitch—the character does horrible things to Nina—so one of the questions the movie investigates is how much toxicity a relationship can survive if the foundation of the relationship is genuine love.

          In the most surprising flashbacks, an unexpected bond develops between Stephen, Nina, and Nina’s rebound boyfriend, a hippie musician named Elmo (Kris Kristofferson). Whereas Nina and Stephen represent typical upper-class L.A. neuroticism—the spouses even use the same psychotherapist—Elmo epitomizes the counterculture mindset. He’s a work-averse dropout who spends every day screwing, singing, and smoking. Kristofferson’s performance energizes the middle of the picture, because his unpredictable character takes the story in so many fresh directions.

          Segal, always a pro at playing amiable pricks, complements his expert comic timing with subtler shadings, displaying the vulnerability that bubbles underneath Stephen’s cocksure façade. The forgettable Anspach is a weak link, but in her defense, the Nina character is more of a narrative construct than a believable individual. Blume in Love is far from perfect, not only because the central character’s behavior will undoubtedly turn off many viewers but also because the movie’s a bit fleshy. (A subplot featuring Mazursky in an acting role as Stephen’s partner works well, but a larger subplot featuring Shelley Winters as one of Stephen’s clients seems extraneous.) Still, the movie’s best scenes represent Mazursky’s unique approach to social satire at its most humanistic and incisive.

Blume In Love: GROOVY

Play It Again, Sam (1972)

          The romantic comedy Play It Again, Sam is significant for two very specific reasons: It’s one of only two ’70s movies that Woody Allen acted in but did not direct, and it’s the first screen collaboration between Allen and his definitive ’70s leading lady, Diane Keaton. Adapted by Allen from his own stage play of the same name and directed by the always-elegant Herbert Ross, Play It Again, Sam is a silly trifle about a nebbish who falls in love with his best friend’s wife while receiving advice from an imaginary version of movie icon Humphrey Bogart. The contrast between geeky little Allen and suave, trenchcoat-wearing Bogie (played by Jerry Lacy) is consistently amusing, and the chemistry between Allen and Keaton, who play simpatico neurotics, is terrific. So, even though the movie is never laugh-out-loud funny and even though the story gets overly mechanical toward the end, Play It Again, Sam goes down smoothly.

          Set in San Francisco, the picture stars Allen as Allan, a film critic whose wife, Nancy (Susan Anspach), just left him. Allan finds comfort in the company of his pal Dick (Tony Roberts), a self-involved businessman, and Dick’s amiable but high-strung wife, Linda (Keaton). As Dick and Linda try again and again to connect Allan with new women—most of the blind dates go disastrously bad—Allan daydreams that his favorite tough-guy movie star, Bogart, has materialized to offer romantic advice. This culminates in a complex scene of Allan putting the moves on Linda while arguing with Bogie, who pushes Allan to act more aggressively. Shtick ensues. Giving the sort of super-invested, almost desperate comic performance that marked his earliest films, Allen relies as much on physical slapstick as he does on his trademark wit—and while the trope of Allen bumping into walls and knocking over tables gets tired, his one-liners are great. (“I was incredible last night in bed—I never once had to look up and consult the manual.”)

          From a writing perspective, Allen does a great job of “opening up” the play, using cross-cutting and multiple locations to make the piece feel completely cinematic. Concurrently, Ross finds clever ways to slip the Bogart character into and out of scenes. It all basically works until the end, when Allen twists the story in knots so he can stage a riff on the final scene of Casablanca (1942). (The real thing appears during the opening scene of Play It Again, Sam, when Allan watches Casablanca In a theater.) This forced climax lacks the effortlessness that distinguishes the rest of the film, but it was probably the best means of paying off the whole Bogart angle. Flaws aside, Play It Again, Sam is quasi-essential viewing for ’70s-cinema fans, because a year after this picture was released, Allen and Keaton reteamed for Sleeper (1973), the first in the five Allen-directed ’70s movies they made together. In other words—and you knew this was coming, didn’t you?—Play It Again, Sam was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Play It Again, Sam: GROOVY

The Big Fix (1978)

          The Big Fix attempts so many interesting things, and demonstrates such a high level of craftsmanship and intelligence, that it’s completely worthwhile despite significant flaws. Adapted by Roger L. Simon from his own novel, the movie introduces viewers to Moses Wine (Richard Dreyfuss), a former ’60s activist now settled into humdrum ’70s adulthood. A divorcé with two kids, Moses makes a sketchy living as a private investigator, mostly doing unglamorous stakeout work for corporate clients. Life is constantly humiliating for Moses until he encounters an old flame from college, Lila (Susan Anspach), who reminds him of the beautiful ideals they espoused in the ’60s.

          However, to Moses’ great disappointment, Lila has sold out to work on the gubernatorial campaign of a stuffy politician, and she needs help because someone is spreading rumors that her candidate associates with an Abbie Hoffman-esque radical named Howard Eppis. Moses reluctantly takes the case, but soon realizes he’s stumbled onto something heavy.

          The Big Fix is ostensibly a comedy, with gentle gags like the various explanations for the cast on Moses’ hand, and Simon provides appealing banter for Moses and the peculiar characters he meets. Yet the movie is also a detective thriller with a body count, and years before writer-director Lawrence Kasdan explored similar subject matter in The Big Chill (1983), this film asks why some ’60s activists joined the Establishment they once fought. In fact, the movie sometimes lurches awkwardly between light farce and murderous drama. What holds the thing together is Dreyfuss, who also co-produced the picture.

          Operating at the height of his considerable powers, Dreyfuss showcases Moses’ emotional journey—the character starts out bored and tired, gets jazzed by adventure, and ends up revitalized by the discovery that he hasn’t truly betrayed his old principles. Dreyfuss has many dazzling scenes, whether he’s hyperventilating after a shooting or demonstrating unexpected courage during an interrogation. It’s probably a better performance than the material deserves, but great work is always a joy to watch.

          Another strength of The Big Fix is the terrific supporting cast: F. Murray Abraham, Bonnie Bedelia, Jon Lithgow, Ron Rifkin, and Fritz Weaver each contribute something memorable and unique. Director Jeremy Paul Kagan moves the camera smoothly, shapes a number of good performances, and uses locations well, but as in most of his features, the pieces never fully cohere; The Big Fix is more a collection of enjoyable scenes than a well-told story. Nonetheless, the film’s virtues are many, and its offbeat take on the subject of ’60s counterculture is consistently interesting.

The Big Fix: GROOVY

Running (1979)

          Yet another product of the post-Rocky boom in feel-good sports flicks, this by-the-numbers character piece follows the travails of Michael Andropolis (Michael Douglas), a loser in his early 30s who’s determined to compete in the Olympic marathon. Writer-director Steven Hilliard Stern doesn’t come close to getting viewers in Andropolis’ corner, because the backstory Stern offers for his protagonist is contrived, irritating, and unconvincing: The character quit law school and med school, derailed his marriage to long-suffering Janet (Susan Anspach), and acts out childishly whenever anyone tries to impose authority on him. The character is supposed to be an I-gotta-be-me ’70s iconoclast, but he comes across as nothing more than a spoiled brat. Particularly egregious is a silly scene in which Andropolis berates a clerk at an unemployment office for having the temerity to take her coffee break, as if Andropolis is entitled to righteous indignation after losing a job he treated contemptuously.

          The distance-running stuff in the movie is better than the character material, but not by much; Stern’s idea of a training montage is a string of scenic shots depicting Douglas jogging through city streets while a supposedly uplifting musical theme drones on the soundtrack. Yet even with all of these flaws, Running isn’t awful. Quite frankly, it isn’t enough of anything to warrant a strong reaction one way or the other. Attractive location photography by Laszlo George helps make the film palatable, as do sequences filmed in the Montreal Olympics Stadium that was constructed for the 1976 summer games.

          The main appeal, however, is Douglas, who was just coming into his own as a movie star in the late ’70s. He’s in every scene, and it’s interesting to watch him working out the mechanics of how to command the screen with his signature swagger. He doesn’t get much help from Anspach, a sincere and sunny performer whose unremarkable feature career peaked in the ’70s. Making stronger contributions are reliable character player Chuck Shamata, who does a fine job as an opportunistic car salesman angling to cash in on Andropolis’ moment, and Lawrence Dane, who gives a charged performance as Andropolis’ embittered coach. Running is also noteworthy(ish) for featuring several interesting folks in early small roles, namely comedians Eugene Levy and Robin Duke and dramatic actors Gordon Clapp and Giancarlo Esposito. All in all, Running is pleasant to watch—and then immediately forgettable.

Running: FUNKY