Semi-Tough (1977)

          Had the people making this comedy been more judicious about picking their satirical targets, Semi-Tough might have become a semi-classic, because the actors and behind-the-scenes players were all at the height of their considerable powers. Unfortunately, the movie is a muddle because of indecision about whether to focus on the seedy side of pro football or the über-’70s trend of “est” training.

          The picture starts out like gangbusters, introducing unlikely roommates Billy Clyde Puckett (Burt Reynolds), Marvin Tiller (Kris Kristofferson), and Barbara Jane Bookman (Jill Clayburgh). Billy Clyde and Marvin are the star players for a Southern football team, which is owned by Barbara Jane’s wacky daddy, Big Ed Bookman (Robert Preston). Sharing space platonically because they’ve been friends since childhood, Billy Clyde, Marvin, and Barbara Jane are funny, hip, and neurotic, serious about sports but irreverent about everything else. As the story progresses, Marvin and Barbara Jane become a couple, which causes Billy Clyde to realize he’s in love with Barbara Jane.

          The movie also introduces wild characters like an oily PR man (Richard Masur), a psychotic lineman (Brian Dennehy), and a blissed-out Russian field-goal kicker (Ron Silver). On and off the field, the football stuff is great, with debauched parties, philosophical locker-room interviews, and tense practice sessions. However, the movie gets sidetracked when Marvin falls under the spell of Friedrick Bismark (Bert Convy), the smoothie behind “B.E.A.T. therapy,” a campy spin on “est.”

          In real life, Erhard Seminars Training (‘est”) was a therapeutically dubious fad in which patrons paid exorbitant fees to sit in hotel conference rooms for marathon character-building sessions without bathroom breaks. “B.E.A.T.” takes the extremes of “est” even further; Bismark labels all his followers assholes and spews empty psychobabble (“There aren’t any answers because there aren’t any questions”). Convy, a ’70s-TV stalwart best known for hosting game shows, is actually very good in Semi-Tough, revealing the savvy slickster behind the spiritual-guru façade. Like the football material, the “B.E.A.T.” stuff is great, but it belongs in its own movie. Complicating matters even further, the romantic triangle between the protagonists never really connects, since Marvin transforms into such a B.E.A.T.-addicted space case that he’s easily outmatched by down-to-earth Billy Clyde.

          That said, Clayburgh, Kristofferson, and Reynolds are wonderful, as is Preston; the scene in which Preston and Reynolds scamper around Big Ed’s office on their hands and knees because Big Ed is experimenting with “crawling therapy” is terrific. In fact, there’s so much to like in Semi-Tough that it’s dismaying to report how widely the film’s director, the sometimes-great comedy specialist Michael Ritchie, misses his mark. Still, viewers willing to treat the picture like a sampler platter will be amply rewarded: It may not be a proper cinematic meal, but it’s certainly the equivalent to a bunch of tasty snacks.

Semi-Tough: FUNKY

Rollerball (1975)

          The best science-fiction films of the early ’70s provided sharp social commentary in addition to whiz-bang visuals. For instance, Rollerball is ostensibly an action movie about a futuristic game that combines gladiatorial violence with high-speed athleticism, but it’s also a treatise on the insidiousness of corporate influence and the manner in which vacuous entertainment narcotizes the public.

          Set in what was then the near future, 2018, the picture imagines that the nations of Earth have been replaced by a handful of corporations responsible for providing key services, notably the Energy Corporation of Houston, Texas. The corporations have eliminated famine and war, but they’re also eradicating free will. To keep the masses in check, the Corporations invented Rollerball, a kind of hyper-violent roller derby; players move around a circular track on skates or on motorcycles, bashing each other senseless as they try to jam a metal ball into a scoring slot.

          The game’s biggest star is Houston’s Jonathan E. (James Caan), but his bosses, including Energy titan Bartholemew (John Houseman), perceive Jonathan’s popularity as a threat. “The game was created to demonstrate the futility of individual effort,” Bartholemew muses at one point. Bartholemew and his cronies try to ply Jonathan with money and women, but when he refuses to go quietly, they change game rules in order to allow opponents to kill him during a brutal match between the Houston team and the samurai-styled squad from Tokyo.

          Given this slight plot, it’s impressive that Rollerball remains interesting from start to finish. Director Norman Jewison, midway through one of the most eclectic careers in Hollywood history, does a masterful job of parceling the Rollerball scenes—we get a bloody taste at the beginning, and never return to the rink except when necessary for narrative purposes. Furthermore, once Jewison begins a game sequence, he pounds the audience with relentless cuts and movement that simulate the ferocity of the game itself.

          Scenes taking place outside the rink are menacing and quiet, with Caan displaying sensitivity that contrasts the bloodlust he evinces on the battlefield. Houseman personifies an ugly type of blueblooded superiority, while an eclectic group of character players fill out the rest of the cast. John Beck is intense as Caan’s teammate, Moonpie; Moses Gunn lends gravitas as an anguished coach; and Pamela Hensley provides allure as a kept woman opportunistically moving from one star player to the next. Best of all is one-scene wonder Ralph Richardson, who plays a daffy librarian eager to help Jonathan investigate the evil designs of the corporations.

          This being a sci-fi picture, the visuals are of paramount importance, and cinematographer Douglas Slocombe’s images never disappoint: His haze filters and long lenses give the picture otherworldly coldness. Rollerball’s characterizations aren’t particularly deep—perhaps because writer William Harrison drew from the slight source material of his own short story, “Roller Ball Murder”—but careful direction, solid performances, and vivid action make the picture quite exciting.

Rollerball: GROOVY

One Little Indian (1973)

          In a strange little career blip between his big-screen heyday in the late ’60s and his return to television with The Rockford Files, beloved leading man James Garner headlined a pair of inconsequential Disney movies. One Little Indian is darker and deeper than the company’s usual fare, telling the story of how a condemned man becomes the surrogate father for an orphaned child, and the feather-light The Castaway Cowboy is an offbeat romance. Were it not for the presence of colorful animal scenes in both flicks, it would be difficult to realize these titles came from the Mouse House.
          Written and directed, respectively, by old hands Harry Spalding and Bernard McEveety, One Little Indian is surprisingly respectable given the slightness of its storyline. Garner plays Keyes, a post-Civil War cavalryman sentenced to hang for treason. As we discover late in the story, Keyes tried to prevent fellow soldiers from conducting a Sand Creek-type massacre on an Indian village. Meanwhile, Mark (Clay O’Brien) is a white youth who has been raised by Indians. When a cavalry unit rounds up Mark’s tribe for relocation to a reservation, Mark tries repeatedly to escape. Through the magic of Disney coincidence, Keyes and Mark discover each other and become traveling companions.

          Adding novelty to their journey is the fact that their steeds are camels rather than horses; the animals are leftovers from an Army experiment in using dromedaries for desert transportation. Over the course of their journey together, man and boy bond with a frontier widow (Vera Miles) and her young daughter (Jodie Foster). They also engage in high jinks and shoot-outs as they evade capture. Excepting some silliness with the camels, One Little Indian is basically a straight drama, and rather a somber one, so Garner is able to sink his teeth into a few solid dramatic scenes. (He and Miles, who reteamed in The Castaway Cowboy, make an attractive screen couple.) O’Brien is a passable child actor, neither greatly adding to nor detracting from scenes, and reliable supporting players like Pat Hingle, Andrew Prine, and Morgan Woodward fill out the rest of the story. One Little Indian won’t linger very long in your memory, but it’s pleasant viewing.

One Little Indian: FUNKY

The Challenge (1970)

          Essentially a sci-fi spin on the ’60s war flick Hell in the Pacific, this offbeat TV movie proceeds from the outlandish premise that the U.S. and a small Asian nation would agree to settle their differences by sending one soldier from each country to fight on a remote island, with the survivor claiming victory. The plot begins when an experimental U.S. satellite, capable of launching nuclear-missile strikes from space, crashes into the international waters of the Pacific. A battleship from the unnamed Asian nation recovers the satellite, but then U.S. forces establish a blockade preventing the battleship from leaving with its prize. To resolve the conflict, the countries send two heavily armed “surrogates” into battle.

          Improbably, the U.S. recruits an unpredictable maverick, court-martialed Vietnam veteran-turned-mercenary Jacob Gallery (Darren McGavin), instead of the logical candidate, patriotic commando Bryant (Sam Elliott). This decision, authorized by top-level government operative Overman (James Whitmore), understandably grates hard-nosed General Meyers (Broderick Crawford). Nonetheless, Bryant and Meyers sit on the sidelines while Gallery treks to the island for a series of machine-gun shoot-outs with his opposite number, Yuro (played by durable character actor Mako).

          The Challenge, originally broadcast at 74 minutes and later expanded to 90 minutes for cable exhibition, features several exciting scenes of jungle combat, showcasing each combatant’s inventive guerilla techniques. (Gallery poisons the island’s fresh-water supplies and booby-traps the huts in an abandoned village, while Yuro employs similar tactics.) By the time the warriors reach their final confrontation a week after their fight started, they’re dehydrated, delusional, and wounded. Making matters worse, their respective governments covertly send backup soldiers onto the island.

          Despite its iffy concept and rudimentary execution, and notwithstanding the unnecessary flashbacks that dilute key moments, The Challenge is a fun ride from its disorienting opening to its bummer denouement. Accordingly, it’s odd that rank-and-file TV director George McGowan took his name off the picture and replaced it with the Directors Guild alias “Alan Smithee.” The Challenge isn’t great, but with McGavin’s enjoyably florid performance and an abundance of credible action, it’s respectable escapism.

The Challenge: FUNKY

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973)

          A critical favorite whose enviable reputation stems from lingering fascination with director Sam Peckinpah and the mystique that attaches to any serious movie altered by studio interference, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid has many virtues that are not immediately apparent—it’s like one of those classic novels that makes more sense after one learns about the context surrounding the novel’s creation. Thus, Pat Garrett on its own merits might seem merely a somewhat pretentious Western drama offering a bleak riff on the last days of a notorious outlaw. Seen through the prism of Peckinpah’s career, however, it becomes something more.

          The story is deceptively simple. Graying outlaw-turned-lawman Pat Garrett (James Coburn) reunites with his old comrade-in-crime, William “Billy the Kid” Bonney (Kris Kristofferson), in New Mexico. Garret advises Billy to leave the country because authorities are planning to hunt Billy. Appalled at the way corporations and politicians are constricting the frontier, Billy remains at large until he’s captured by lawmen including Bible-thumping deputy Ollinger (R.G. Armstrong). Gunning his way free of his captors, Billy starts a tragic cycle leading to a confrontation with his friend Garrett.

          Much has been made of this picture’s metaphorical heft, since the idea of a former robber betraying his lawless friend can be interpreted as a statement on the way greed changed the maverick spirit of the Old West. And, indeed, some dialogue and imagery emphasizes that exact reading, like the bit in which Peckinpah appears onscreen as a coffin maker. (See, he’s burying the Old West.) Taking the metaphor further, the picture can also be viewed as a rumination on individual-vs.-the-establishment themes that were prevalent in the national conversation at the time the film was made.

          The problem with over-praising this movie is twofold. First, Peckinpah expressed the same themes, with greater clarity and power, in earlier pictures like The Wild Bunch (1969). Second, Pat Garrett gets mired in lots of distractions, like the pointless scenes with Billy’s young sidekick, Alias (Bob Dylan), or the extended sequence of a female gunslinger (Katy Jurado) mowing down a group of opponents. This being a Peckinpah flick, there are also long vignettes of sweaty men drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and screwing whores in filthy rooms, plus a fair amount of slow-motion bloodletting.

          To be fair, the song score by costar Dylan adds a melancholy vibe (Dylan’s great song “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” was introduced here), and any assessment of Pat Garrett must take into consideration the fact that the picture has been released in several versions. For instance, a so-called “Director’s Cut” was released in 2001, nearly 20 years after Peckinpah died, so it’s anybody’s guess which version of the picture represents Peckinpah’s original intentions. Still, any film must ultimately be appraised based upon its content, and the two hours comprising the currently available “definitive” version of Pat Garrett feature flashes of brilliance in the service of a thoughtful but murky narrative.

          Like Two-Lane Blacktop (1971), another counterculture-themed picture written by Rudy Wurlitzer, Pat Garrett is a uniquely ’70s endeavor that makes for a great discussion piece, even if it somehow provokes viewers to invest the material with more meaning than is actually present. But then again, one of Peckinpah’s great gifts, both onscreen and in his private life, was stirring up trouble; therefore, perhaps the secret genius of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is that it smashes signifiers together and lets the audience sort out the chaos.

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid: GROOVY

Laserblast (1978)

An early effort from grade-Z movie producer Charles Band, who later achieved cult notoriety with gory flicks like Re-Animator (1985), this amateurish sci-fi thriller features the numbing combination of a brainless script, cheap production, lifeless acting, and terrible special effects. Clearly, there’s a reason why, as of this writing, Laserblast occupies the No. 77 slot on IMDb’s “Bottom 1oo” list of the worst movies ever made. While that distinction might be unnecessarily harsh, there’s virtually nothing to recommend in the picture. Among its myriad shortcomings, Laserblast tells a silly story with watching-paint-dry tedium; a pair of B-list actors (Roddy McDowall and Keenan Wynn) appear very briefly, despite their prominent billing; and the flick even disappoints by delivering only meager amounts of exploitation elements like gore and skin. In the goofy opening sequence, a green-faced but otherwise humanoid alien wearing a Star Trek-style uniform runs through a desert somewhere in the American southwest, carrying a giant hand-mounted laser gun. He gets into a space-age shootout with a pair of reptilian aliens, who are presented in cheap-looking stop-motion animation, and the humanoid alien dies, leaving his laser gun behind. Soon afterward, a slacker-dude teenager (Kim Milford) discovers the weapon and begins experimenting with it, unaware that every time he uses the gun, he transforms into a bug-eyed monster. What follows is the usual drill, with the lizard aliens returning to reclaim the gun while a nefarious government agent tries to find the weapon first. Yawn. Milford is an awful actor whose career went nowhere, and leading lady Cheryl Smith, who starred in the 1973 cult film Lemora: A Child’s Tale of the Supernatural, is equally bad. Supporting player Eddie Deezen, in his screen debut, will be familiar to many viewers because he later forged a solid career as one of Hollywood’s go-to character players for geek roles.

Laserblast: SQUARE

Steppenwolf (1974)

          The ’70s produced a slew of movies that feel like drug experiences caught on film, and Steppenwolf belongs on any list of these head-spinning cinematic trips. Adapted from German writer Hermann Hesse’s novel about a despondent man’s journey into his own subconscious, the picture uses animated sequences, music-driven montages, and primitive electronic visual effects to simulate various regions within the mind, and everything is shown through the prism of a protagonist who’s losing touch with reality. It’s heady stuff, to be sure, and also quite depressing and humorless; while not an outright pain-fest in the David Lynch mode, Steppenwolf is singularly strange and unpleasant.

          Max von Sydow stars as Harry Haller, a man caught in an unusual sort of a midlife crisis: After a long career as an academic, Harry has determined that he’s losing the war between the human half of his soul and the “wolf” controlling the animal side of his soul, meaning he’s no longer suited to interact with normal people. Roaming city streets every night in an aimless haze, he discovers the entrance to something called “The Magic Theater,” a place “for madmen only,” so he ventures into this bizarre new realm and encounters all sorts of surrealistic sensations.

          As the movie drifts back and forth between the theater and Harry’s now-altered everyday life, Harry experiences casual sex that challenges his morality, drug use that affects his perceptions, and dreamlike encounters with historical figures like Goerthe and Mozart that shake his understanding of the universe. Obviously, straightforward plotting is not the priority here, so Steppenwolf is a bit of a chore to sit through simply because there’s no overarching sense of momentum or purpose; rather, the thrust of the piece is Harry’s painful attempt to wrestle with life’s big questions.

          To put this cerebral concept onscreen, writer-director Fred Haines uses jarring aural and visual flourishes. The soundtrack features freeform-jazz keyboard freakouts that sound like the prog-rock band Yes tuning up before a concert, and the crude video effects placing Harry into two-dimensional backgrounds have the vibe of music videos from the early days of MTV. However, these stylistic touches might have had greater impact if the movie didn’t feel impossibly pretentious. At one point, Harry says the following mouthful to Goerthe: “You clearly recognized the utter hopelessness of the human condition, but you preach the opposite—that our spiritual stirrings mean something.” The literary aspirations of the line are admirable, but overwritten language of this sort doesn’t exactly work as cinematic drama.

          Haines also falls into the predictable trap of creating scenes that are as interminable to watch as they are for the characters to experience. In one such vignette, Harry joins a surreal dinner party in which people barely speak to each other while a super-loud clock ticks off the passing minutes; then, after someone makes a joke that isn’t funny, everyone bursts into riotous laughter. There’s a lot of vivid stuff in Steppenwolf, particularly the sequences with animation and puppets that recall Terry Gilliam’s famous Monty Python cartoons, but the constant onslaught of unhappiness and vagueness feels self-indulgent, as if Haines considered it pandering to clarify his vision before committing it to film.

Steppenwolf: FREAKY

That’ll Be the Day (1973) & Stardust (1974)

          That’ll Be the Day and its sequel, Stardust, collectively tell the life story of a fictional “British Invasion” musician named Jim MacLaine. Compelling and evocative, the films are substantially more insightful than most rock-star pictures—freed from the usual obligation to rehash familiar episodes from the lives of real people, these movies create a pastiche reflecting the life cycle common to every self-destructive superstar.

          As the Buddy Holly-referencing title suggests, That’ll Be the Day takes place during the ’50s. Jim (played by real-life rock singer David Essex) is a tough English kid with abandonment issues—Daddy skipped out when Jim was a wee lad—and dreams of emulating his favorite American rock stars. Jim drops out of school, gets odd jobs like working at a carnival, and bonds with another testosterone-crazed youth, Mike (played by Beatles drummer Ringo Starr). That’ll Be the Day comprises atmospheric but meandering scenes of the buddies brawling and carousing, juxtaposing Jim’s bachelor adventures with his family’s expectations that he’ll get a real job and settle down.

          As written by Ray Connolly, who also penned the sequel, That’ll Be the Day is more about vibe than story, and the lead character comes across as opaque since he’s still in the process of finding himself. Nonetheless, the costuming, dialogue, locations, and period details create a highly credible texture, so at its best, That’ll Be the Day feels like a documentary capturing the vibrant pre-Beatles era in working-class England. Essex and Starr are loose and natural, and the whole cast is stocked with solid British players. However, it’s the music that really energizes the movie, because the soundtrack features amazing tunes by the Beatles, Ray Charles, the Who and others, sometimes played in their original versions as background music, and sometimes performed onscreen by musicians including the Who’s drummer, Keith Moon.

          The follow-up movie, which picks up almost immediately after That’ll Be the Day ends, features a much stronger story, and appropriately so—Stardust dramatizes what happens when Jim and his mates in a band called the Stray Cats become Beatles-type rock stars, leading to the customary onslaught of drugs, groupies, sycophants, and villainous record-company executives. There’s a great deal of continuity between the pictures, even though That’ll Be the Day director Claude Whatham was replaced for Stardust by the proficient Michael Apted. Additionally, Essex’s performance gets deeper and more complicated as his character shifts from post-adolescent angst to rock-star ennui.

          In Stardust, Jim conquers the world with the Stray Cats, ditches the band for a solo career, and eventually becomes a messianic pop-culture figure. At his apex, Jim presents an epic rock opera as a blockbuster TV special, and the project’s success transforms him into a kind of living god for his fans. Being worshipped makes Jim feel detached from society, however, so by the end of the picture, he’s a millionaire recluse living in a European castle, wandering around in a drug-addled haze while managers and promoters tempt him with lucrative comeback offers.

          Seen out of context, Stardust might seem overly melodramatic because of how far it takes the character down the path of self-indulgence, but for viewers who observed Jim’s troubled youth in That’ll Be the Day, the course he charts in Stardust seems believably sad. Once again, the music is great, with tunes by the Lovin’ Spoonful and the Righteous Brothers intermingling with perfectly crafted originals. Better still, the ending is a monster, so Stardust belongs to a select group of sequels that actually improve upon their predecessors.

That’ll Be the Day: GROOVY

Stardust: RIGHT ON

Ned Kelly (1970)

          The first in a string of violent ’70s features about 19th-century Australian outlaws, this offbeat pseudo-Western is notable for featuring rock star Mick Jagger’s first starring role as an actor. (The same year this picture was released, he costarred with James Fox in the freaky psychodrama Performance, but he’s the sole protagonist of Ned Kelly.) Since Jagger was well on his way toward becoming a living legend in the rock world at the time Ned Kelly was made, there’s no way to avoid the impression that acting was a lark rather than a serious endeavor, and, indeed, his halfhearted performance drains the movie of vitality right from the first frames.

          Awkwardly wrapping his voice around an Irish accent that varies from scene to scene (when not disappearing altogether), Jagger seems like a kid playing with toy guns whenever he flits around the screen brandishing firearms or leading his outlaw mates into action. Worse, the legendary charisma that Jagger exudes onstage is mostly absent from Ned Kelly, so even bit players command greater attention simply by giving committed performances.

          In Jagger’s meager defense, it’s not as if Ned Kelly would have been a spectacular film even with a better leading man. Directed by journeyman Tony Richardson, whose films often boasted more intensity than discipline, Ned Kelly explores the trite subject matter of a working-class criminal whose exploits lift him to folk-hero status, and the movie romanticizes Kelly so unrelentingly that frog-throated country crooner Waylon Jennings appears on the soundtrack singing ballads about Kelly during the picture’s many montages. These fanciful elements clash with the movie’s grimy production design, suggesting that Richardson was unsure whether to celebrate, or merely document, his subject.

          As did the real Ned Kelly, Jagger’s character turns to horse thievery when paying work proves scarce, eventually enlisting members of his extended immigrant clan as cohorts in criminality. Most of the picture features dull and interchangeable scenes of Ned and the lads committing crimes and avoiding authorities, relishing their celebrity when they see that rewards for their capture have increased. The somewhat novel climax involves Ned’s gang fashioning handmade armor for a decisive standoff, and Richardson’s filmmaking gets energized in the final moments: The key scene of Jagger facing his enemies while encased in head-to-toe iron has a memorably claustrophobic vibe. However, the fact that the costume is more interesting than the actor inside the costume speaks volumes about why Ned Kelly is mediocre at best.

          FYI, several Australian movies were made about Ned Kelly prior to the ’70s, a low-rent comedy about the character was made in 1993 by Aussie comedian Yahoo Serious, and Heath Ledger starred in a big-budget 2003 flop that was also titled Ned Kelly.

Ned Kelly: 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

The Gumball Rally (1976)

          In 1975, a Time magazine cover story introduced the world to the “Cannonball Baker Sea-to-Shining-Sea Memorial Trophy Dash,” better known as the Cannonball Run, an illegal road race in which competitors sped across the U.S. to determine who could travel from New York to Los Angeles the fastest. Created by a pair of car enthusiasts rebelling against speed limits, the Cannonball Run inspired two low-budget movies released in 1976. First up was the Roger Corman production Cannonball, a black comedy with the accent on violence, and then came this lighthearted take on the subject.

          The Gumball Rally stars Michael Sarrazin as Michael Bannon, the idle-rich originator of a Cannonball-style road race involving a handful of free-spirited competitors. Although the movie has some perfunctory plot devices, like Bannon’s friendly rivalry with fellow racer Steve Smith (Tim McIntire) and the efforts of inept cop Lt. Roscoe (Norman Burton) to interrupt the race, the focus is on wild automotive antics: The drivers pull high-speed shenanigans like transferring passengers from one moving car to another, and they make sport of outsmarting cops across the country.

          There’s not much in the way of characterization, so, for instance, Alice (Susan Flannery) and Jane (Joanne Nail) are one-note hotties using their looks to wriggle free of police entanglements while demolishing speed limits in their Porsche. Despite its superficiality, The Gumball Rally is an amiable celebration of individualism and irreverence, since the racers aren’t out to hurt anybody; they’re simply competing for fun, glory, and a gold-plated gumball machine.

          As directed by Charles Bail, whose career primarily comprises episodes of shows like CHiPs and Knight Rider, The Gumball Rally benefits greatly from enthusiastic performers. Sarrazin, an promising ’60s/’70s leading man whose career was starting to wobble at this point, is charming and funny, while McIntire offers his customary force-of-nature bluster; they make such a great duo it would have been fun to see them in other movies together. Gary Busey plays another in his long line of crazy-redneck characters, hootin’ and hollerin’ to enjoyable effect, and a young Raul Julia steals the movie with his flamboyant turn as an Italian speedster with a weakness for the ladies.

          The Gumball Rally is fluff, but it goes down a lot smoother than the officially sanctioned movie about the Cannonball race, 1981’s star-studded The Cannonball Run. Whereas the latter film is bloated, crude, and sexist, The Gumball Rally is 105 minutes of pleasant silliness.

The Gumball Rally: GROOVY

The Six Million Dollar Man (1973)

          Surprisingly, the first onscreen appearance of beloved ’70s superhero Steve Austin has more than a hint of darkness. Adapted from Martin Caidin’s novel Cyborg, this TV movie begins with former astronaut Austin (Lee Majors) working as a test pilot. After the experimental plane he’s flying crashes, government operative Oliver Spencer (Darren McGavin) approves the $6 million procedure of replacing Austin’s damaged body parts with lifelike, super-powered bionics. The procedure is executed by Dr. Rudy Wells (Martin Balsam), the bleeding-heart yin to Spencer’s coldly calculating yang. When Austin wakes from surgery and discovers what transpired, he’s enraged at being turned into a freak. Nonetheless, Austin agrees to conduct a covert mission in the Middle East, the purported goal of which is rescuing an American hostage—but in fact, Spencer engineered the mission as a test. He allows Austin to get captured, then waits to see if the “Six Million Dollar Man” can escape without assistance. Suffice to say he does, but that success merely triggers an oh-so-’70s bummer ending: Spencer orders Austin into an artificially induced coma, keeping him on ice until some future mission.

          The Six Million Dollar Man is highly watchable but quite gloomy, and thus a world away from the escapist vibe of the resulting series. After the first Steve Austin movie scored in the ratings on March 7, 1973, a pair of follow-up telefilms were broadcast in the fall of the same year, taking the character in a totally different direction: Wine, Women, and War and The Solid Gold Kidnapping awkwardly shove Austin into James Bond-style adventures. Featuring comic-book plots and a goofy theme song performed by Dusty Springfield, both movies are enjoyable but far too derivative. Once the weekly Six Million Dollar Man series launched in January 1974, Majors’ aw-shucks stoicism and the spectacle of bionic-assisted heroism took center stage, with Austin reworked as a devoted government servant thankful for a second chance at life. Although the first episode introduced the series’ iconic opening sequence (“We can rebuild him,” and so on), the show didn’t reach cruising altitude until later seasons, thanks to recurring tropes like Austin’s mechanized love interest, the Bionic Woman, and a robotic version of Bigfoot (first played by wrestler Andre the Giant). In the context of what followed, the original 1973 pilot movie offers not just the foundation for a fun franchise, but also a window into a more serious version of The Six Million Dollar Man that might have been.

The Six Million Dollar Man: FUNKY

Zig Zag (1970)

          This twisty thriller kicks off with a terrific premise before faltering due to sloppy execution. George Kennedy stars as Paul Cameron, a claims investigator at an insurance company who learns he’s got only a few months to live. Desperate to provide for his wife and daughter, Paul digs through his company’s records and discovers that a $250,000 reward is still outstanding for the capture of an unknown criminal who kidnapped and murdered a millionaire. (Paul’s company paid a substantial death benefit to the victim’s family.) Using his wife’s maiden name as an alias, Paul sends a letter to the millionaire’s company claiming that he, Paul Cameron, was the murderer. Paul’s complex scheme is to get himself indicted and jailed for the crime so his wife, her identity hidden behind a web of bank accounts and P.O. boxes, can claim the reward. As this description indicates, the plot of Zig Zag ties itself in knots, stacking implausible developments until the storyline is impossibly muddled. Furthermore, the filmmakers present the story in a jagged style that justifies the title, jumping back and forth between the “present” (which begins with Paul’s arrest) and the “past” (which depicts his methodical planning).

          That said, a number of interesting things happen, like the casual revelation that Paul used to be a jazz drummer and therefore has connections in the hepcat underworld of drug dealers and musicians. Additionally, the relationship between Paul and his exasperated lawyer (Eli Wallach) is entertaining. On a stylistic level, director Richard A. Colla, a TV veteran who directed a handful of middling features, executes Zig Zag with visual panache, building many scenes around trick shots that open by peering deep into some partially obstructed background, then pull back to reveal previously hidden details. In fact, the gimmicky camerawork makes some sequences feel more interesting than they actually are, though the sleight of hand loses efficacy once the shortcomings of the script become impossible to ignore. Kennedy barrels through scenes with watchable intensity, employing vigor in place of nuance, while Anne Jackson (costar Wallach’s real-life spouse) delivers credible anguish as Paul’s worried wife, and Blacula star William Marshall lends his sonorous voice to key role as a nightclub owner who helps Paul out of a jam. These appealing performers and Colla’s kicky visuals make Zig Zag a pleasant distraction—until the confusing mess of a finale, that is. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Zig Zag: FUNKY

Julius Caesar (1970)

          Although the idea of Charlton Heston playing classical roles always inspires trepidation, Heston is quite potent as Marc Anthony in this lusty adaptation of the Shakespeare classic. Instead, it’s the usually impeccable Jason Robards, playing treacherous senator Brutus, who underwhelms. Whereas one might expect Heston’s distinctly American persona to be an impediment in this milieu, his flamboyance fits the grandeur of Shakespearean English; conversely, Robards’ internalized moodiness is too quiet for director Stuart Burge’s muscular approach to the text. Screenwriter Robert Furnival hacked a few passages from the play, shortening the running time and making room for flourishes like an elaborate battlefield finale, but the core of the piece is intact. In 44 B.C., Roman emperor Julius Caesar (John Gielgud) cements his power through military victories, sparking fears among senators like Brutus, Casca (Robert Vaughn), and Cassius (Richard Johnson) that Caesar will seize absolute control. Brutus and his fellow conspirators murder Caesar, triggering a civil war between the conspirators and forces led by Caesar’s best friend, Marc Anthony.

          Burge gives the picture a standard sword-and-sandals look, with extras in flowing robes flitting across soundstages crammed with columns and staircases, so the piece doesn’t really take flight until Burge moves onto location for the climactic battle. That said, he builds an insistent pace and employs enough movement in his blocking to avoid filling the screen with long stretches of static talking heads. Plus, with its scenes of assassination and civil unrest, it’s not as if Julius Caesar lacks for inherent drama. Among the supporting cast, the standouts are Geilgud, bitchy and grandiose as a leader drunk on adulation; Johnson and Vaughn, calculating and cruel as men whose ambition trumps their loyalty; and Diana Rigg, sexy and sly as Brutus’ wife. Ultimately, however, the movie hinges on the interplay between Brutus and Marc Anthony. Robards seems uninterested throughout most of the picture, though his performance gains vigor after the assassination, but Heston is on fire from beginning to end. Clearly relishing the chance to play one of the great roles, Heston attacks monologues with the same animalistic energy he usually brings to the physical aspect of his performances, so he’s magnetic even though his performance choices are obvious and simplistic.

Julius Caesar: FUNKY

The AristoCats (1970)

          Walt Disney Productions’ first animated feature of the ’70s, The AristoCats is an old-fashioned charmer in the company’s classic tradition. Filled with amusing characterizations, bouncy songs, meticulous illustration, and unvarnished sweetness, this was the last animated feature authorized by Walt Disney himself, although he died before production began.
          Offering a feline twist on the studio’s canine classic 101 Dalmatians (1961), the picture takes place in 1910 Paris, where retired opera singer Madame Bonfamille lives with her cats and her seemingly loyal butler, Edgar. When Edgar discovers that “Madame” plans to leave her estate to her pets, he kidnaps the animals and dumps them in a remote field, starting the felines on a long journey home. Along the way, the cats bond with assorted critters who help the heroes foil Edgar’s scheme.

          As the title suggests, the main contrivance is that the cats inherited refinement from their owner. Thus, when feline matriarch Duchess (voiced by Eva Gabor) and her three kittens end up in adrift the world outside their stately home, they charm everyone they meet and discover the plebian pleasures enjoyed by vagabonds like Thomas O’Malley (voiced by Phil Harris), an alley cat who falls for Duchess.
          Although the vocal styles are a bit of a mishmash, with some performers speaking in European accents and others using American intonations, The AristoCats feels unified in the most important respects. The animals can only be heard speaking by other animals, and the choice of wildlife is germane to the story’s milieu.

          Moreover, the soundtrack entertainingly juxtaposes the faux-classical music of Madame’s world with the low-rent jump-and-jive of O’Malley’s environment. The movie’s centerpiece song, “Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat,” is presented in an extended concert/party scene featuring O’Malley’s streetwise pal, Scat Cat (voiced by Scatman Crothers), and the sequence is an explosion of musical and visual energy with bright colors and dynamic graphics flashing in time with the music.

          Although that number was written by Floyd Huddleston and Al Riker, the best tunes in The AristoCats are those penned by songwriting siblings Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman, of Mary Poppins fame. Their title song, performed over the opening credits by a droll Maurice Chevalier in the last recording of his life, and the Shermans’ character-defining song for Duchess and her kittens, “Scales and Arpeggios,” feature the brothers’ deft wordplay at its best.

          Gabor and Harris provide endearing vocal portrayals, as do the various character actors and children voicing the supporting roles, so even though the picture gets a bit carried away with peripheral comedy bits (like the frivolous scenes of Edgar battling a pair of pesky bloodhounds), The AristoCats is a winning exhibition of the beloved Disney style.

The AristoCats: GROOVY

Straight Time (1978)

          After the flurry of activity that followed his star-making performance in The Graduate (1967), Dustin Hoffman became incredibly selective in the ’70s and ’80s, sometimes letting years pass between projects. Not coincidentally, his commitment to the parts he actually took was incredible, manifesting as deep involvement with story development and meticulous research into the lifestyles of his characters. The excellent drama Straight Time is rooted in this uncompromising craftsmanship: Hoffman’s character appears in virtually every scene, so his performance shapes the film.

          Hoffman stars as Max Dembo, a small-time crook recently released from six years in prison. After a few halting attempts at living within the law, Max drifts back to criminality in part because his hard-driving parole officer, Earl Frank (M. Emmett Walsh), finds drug residue left in Max’s dingy apartment by Max’s useless friend, fellow ex-con Willy Darin (Gary Busey). Feeling like he’s damned to incarceration whether he commits crimes or not, Max starts executing risky robberies despite the promise of his new romance with Jenny Mercer (Theresa Russell), a sweet young woman he met at an employment agency.

          The intense drama of Straight Time stems from an exploration of whether Max ever really has the opportunity to go straight. In a way, the picture is an indictment of the social structures that ensure a lifetime of punishment for any significant infraction. Based on a novel by real-life criminal Edward Bunker and directed by Ulu Grosbard, all of whose films are distinguished by extraordinary acting, Straight Time has authenticity to burn. It’s uncomfortable watching Max gauge the reactions of people who discover the truth about his past, and excruciating to see him tossed back in the slammer on the mere suspicion of a parole violation.

          The genius of Hoffman’s performance is that he plays Max as an addict: Whenever Max gets his teeth into a promising score, he loses the ability to perceive anything except the loot in front of him, so he frequently overstays his welcome at crime sites, endangering himself and his accomplices. Therefore, the movie provides a resonant portrait of a career criminal, someone who, accurately or not, believes no other options exist.

          The performers supporting Hoffman are terrific, with Busey and a young Kathy Bates playing an impoverished couple trying to steer clear of trouble despite the Busey character’s many weaknesses. Harry Dean Stanton essays a frightening professional crook whose ruthless discipline makes him a public menace. Russell is credible and sensitive in one of her first roles, and Walsh does wonders with the movie’s thinnest characterization. Although a slew of writers worked on the script (including A-listers Michael Mann and Alvin Sargent), it’s to Grosbard’s and Hoffman’s credit that the film comes together as smoothly as it does: Straight Time is essentially a character study, but the movie also works, at least in moments, as a gripping thriller. More importantly, it resonates.

Straight Time: RIGHT ON

Eraserhead (1977)

          Back in my film-school days, a fellow student who favored experimental cinema encouraged me to watch David Lynch’s directorial debut, Eraserhead, which at that point I knew only by reputation. (This was around the time Lynch was enjoying a vogue thanks to his TV series Twin Peaks.) I took the plunge and watched Lynch’s 90-minute ode to oddness, which explores the world of crazy-haired weirdo Henry Spencer (Jack Nance), who lives in an industrial wasteland with a shrewish female companion and a caterwauling mutant baby. More of an audiovisual experiment than a traditional narrative, the movie is an endurance test for viewers—not only is the film virtually incomprehensible on the level of storytelling, Lynch utilizes so much sickening imagery and thundering noise that it sometimes seems his only goal is inducing nausea.

          Immediately after watching the movie, I was quizzed about my reaction by the Eraserhead fan, and I estimated that about 80% of the movie made sense to me. My friend said that meant I “got” the film, and, indeed, I vaguely recall articulating a fully formed interpretation. Collectively, however, the fact that I can’t remember a single word of what I said, the fact that I’ve never wanted to see the movie again, and the fact that failing to understand the entire movie was considered par for the course indicate how Eraserhead works: It’s like a drug. The movie is such a straight shot of Lynch—replete with his usual tropes of alienation, degradation, mutation, and stylization—that it’s either a sensation you need a fix of every so often, or a sensation you’re content to experience just once.

          There’s no denying the film’s power, because once you’ve seen Lynch’s grainy, black-and-white images of the putrid baby squirming in its crib, ooze glistening all over its misshapen body, you’ll never be able to erase the sight from your memory. Accordingly, Lynch deserves credit for putting his subconscious directly onto the screen; for better or worse, this is auteur filmmaking at its most idiosyncratic and indelible. And, as years of subsequent disturbing movies from this iconoclastic director have demonstrated, it’s not as if Eraserhead represented a juvenile stunt or a weird developmental phase—the man’s first feature is pure Lynch, unencumbered by the dead weight of a plot.

          As Lynch himself remarks in the so-so documentary Great Directors, “Eraserhead is my most spiritual film, but nobody has ever picked up on that.” (Whether that remark was coy or sincere is debatable, since I’ve never been sure how much of Lynch’s persona is a put-on.) Still, whatever the movie’s virtues and/or shortcomings, Eraserhead represents a cinematic artist finding success without compromise.

          Lynch started making the movie while a student at the American Film Institute, acquiring end money from a school grant and from actress Sissy Spacek, the wife of Lynch’s classmate/collaborator Jack Fisk. An adventurous distributor put the movie onto the midnight-movie circuit, where it became a sizable cult hit, earning $7 million despite costing only a reported $20,000. The film’s whacked-out artistry made a deep impression on Hollywood—Mel Brooks, of all people, hired Lynch to make The Elephant Man (1980), and Lynch’s career was off and running.

          So, although it’s deeply unpleasant to watch and although many viewers find it to be a pointless exercise in outré excess, Eraserhead is one of a kind—and that’s why it remains an inspirational touchstone for maverick filmmakers everywhere. Mutant babies of the world, unite!

Eraserhead: FREAKY

The 5th Musketeer (1979)

          An unsuccessful attempt to piggyback on the success of Richard Lester’s joyous movies The Three Musketeers (1973) and The Four Musketeers (1974), this lavish production is actually the umpteenth screen adaptation of The Man in the Iron Mask, the classic novel that French scribe Alexandre Dumas wrote as part of his ongoing Musketeers series. The storyline, of course, involves real-life French King Louis XIV and the fictional character Dumas invented—Louis’ twin brother, Philippe. (Both characters are played by Beau Bridges.) Upon learning of his twin’s existence, Louis and his underlings lock Philippe in a dungeon, his face hidden behind an iron mask, lest Philippe challenge Louis’ right to the throne. However, because Philippe was protected since childhood by the noble musketeers, the now-aging swordsmen come to their young friend’s rescue.

          There’s a lot more to the plot, such as the clash between Louis’ conniving mistress (Ursula Andress) and the Spanish aristocrat (Sylvia Kristel) set to join Louis in an arranged marriage, but as in all musketeer movies, the palace intrigue mostly exists to motivate thrilling swordplay. The best thing about the movie, by far, is the sumptuous imagery created by legendary British cinematographer Jack Cardiff. The picture looks great from start to finish, and the most attractive scenes—like a tense standoff between the musketeers and evil nobleman Fouquet (Ian McShane)—boast the visual depth of great paintings. Additionally, screen icon Olivia de Havilland adds dignity during her brief appearance as the Queen Mother, evoking the many Errol Flynn swashbucklers in which she costarred. But then there’s the problem of the movie’s half-hearted storytelling.

          The script, credited to David Ambrose and George Bruce, is humorless and turgid, while Ken Annakin’s direction is serviceable at best; were it not for the movie’s resplendent look, The 5th Musketeer would feel completely second-rate. Casting is another major problem. Bridges seems so modern (and so American) that he’s not believable in either of his roles; he also lacks the effervescence needed to thrill the audience while bounding across the screen with an exposed blade. The quartet playing his mentors is awkward, as well. Alan Hale Jr. (yes, the Skipper from Gilligan’s Island), Cornel Wilde, and José Ferrer all appeared in studio-era swashbucklers, so they more or less suit the milieu, but Lloyd Bridges, like his son Beau, is too contemporary for the period setting. Furthermore, none of them seems the least bit invested in the material. Kristel, better known for her lurid Emmanuelle movies, is pretty but forgettable, so only Andress and McShane set off (mild) fireworks in their cartoony bad-guy roles. As for the other noteworthy studio-era veteran in the cast, Rex Harrison, he’s a bored-looking non-presence.

The 5th Musketeer: FUNKY

Fyre (1979)

An indie production that doesn’t seem to know what it’s trying to accomplish, Fyre is a little-girl-lost story following a 17-year-old down the dehumanizing path of abuse, drugs, and prostitution following a family tragedy. The picture isn’t sensitive enough to score as a probing drama, and it’s not sufficiently sleazy to qualify as exploitation, so about all that can be said for Fyre is that it’s briskly paced, coherent, and competently made. Is that enough to make it worth watching? Not unless you feel the need to see every movie in this sordid genre, or unless you’re taken with curvy leading lady Lynn Theel, who appeared in a handful of movies and TV shows during the late ’70s and early ’80s without gaining much career momentum. Watching her play the wayward lass whose nickname provides this film’s title, it’s not hard to see why Theel failed to achieve stardom. She gets the job done, and her effort to summon emotion in dramatic scenes appears to be genuine, but nothing sets her apart from other performers. And, unfortunately, she’s pretty much the whole show. Director and co-writer Richard Grand builds the entire movie around Theel’s character, tracking Fyre’s woes as she experiences rape, the loss of family members, a descent into the sex trade, a fraught love relationship with a small-time criminal, and even, just for extra titillation, a near-miss encounter with lesbianism. Then, once the movie reaches its climax of Fyre realizing self-definition is her only path to happiness, Fyre ends up feeling like an after-school special with a bit of R-rated raunch thrown in for no special reason. Offering some distraction from the blandness is a recurring character named Preacher, played by the rotund actor Allen Garfield; a fast-talking crook who drifts in and out of Fyre’s life, he’s the closest thing the movie has to novelty.

Fyre: LAME

Death Wish (1974)

          Among the most controversial movies released by a major studio in the ’70s, Death Wish turned vigilantism into a hot topic around America’s water coolers and a perennial theme for action movies. Whereas the Clint Eastwood vehicle Dirty Harry (1971) manifested late-’60s frustration with the expansion of accused criminals’ rights, Death Wish works on an even more visceral level: It dramatizes the anguish felt by crime victims. Although novelist Brian Garfield, upon whose novel the film is based, reportedly disliked the movie because of the way it seemingly condoned vigilantism, the picture has a measure of nuance—while star Charles Bronson, producer Dino De Laurentiis, and director Michael Winner focus on no-nonsense action, the underlying premise is so provocative that thematic heft unavoidably permeates the bang-bang thrills.

          Bronson plays New York City architect Paul Kersey, whose wife (Hope Lange) and daughter (Kathleen Tolan) are attacked by criminals. The thugs beat Joanna, causing injuries that lead to her death, and rape Carol, sending her into a catatonic state. Shattered, Paul takes a working holiday to Tuscon, where he befriends a gun-enthusiast client (Stuart Margolin), who gives Paul a revolver as a gift. Returning to New York and learning that his family’s assailants will probably never be caught, Paul becomes so preoccupied with street crime that he starts packing heat and looking for trouble. Before long, he’s wiping out every lowlife who crosses his path, thus becoming a folk hero to crime-fatigued New Yorkers. Once the plot gets cooking, the movie depicts the dicey relationship between Manhattan’s mysterious new avenger and the police, notably Detective Frank Ochoa (Vincent Gardenia); while city officials condemn the vigilante’s lawlessness, they relish the downtick in street crime attributed to fear of the gunman.

          While Death Wish is unquestionably lurid and sensationalistic, the harshest criticism of the movie—that it glamorizes vigilantism—is not entirely justified. The first time Paul kills a crook, he rushes home and vomits. Furthermore, the crisp screenplay by Wendell Mayes tightens the noose around Paul from the moment he begins his crusade. On a deeper level, the vengeance mission alienates Paul from society, even though he gets a perverse new spring in his step once he takes matters into his own hands.

          That said, the depiction of criminals as interchangeable ciphers makes it impossible to take the movie completely seriously. In this movie’s vision of New York, the streets are crawling with subhuman monsters, mostly African-American, and only a gun-toting cowboy can make the city safe. Even more troubling is the implication that every petty criminal deserves to die. But that’s what’s interesting about Death Wish, above and beyond the fact that it’s an exciting thriller—the movie tackles big themes, albeit clumsily. (Added novelty stems from the presence of future stars Christopher Guest and Jeff Goldblum in small roles, plus the kinetic funk/jazz score created by Herbie Hancock.)

          Death Wish was a major hit with lasting repercussions, vaulting Bronson to the A-list and triggering endless copycat movies. No official sequel appeared until 1982, but Death Wish II is putrid and the subsequent three pictures in the series are even worse, so everything worthwhile about Death Wish resides in the first movie.

Death Wish: GROOVY

Ganja & Hess (1973)

          A cult-fave movie whose enviable reputation might have more to do with novelty and obscurity than actual cinematic merit, Ganja & Hess is almost certainly the most experimental of all black-vampire movies; it’s closer in spirit to Carl Theodor Dreyer’s 1931 surrealistic epic Vampyr than to the campy blaxploitation joint Blacula. Written and directed by theater-trained artiste Bill Gunn, who apparently was hired to make a straight monster movie but took the production down a different path, Ganja & Hess is a strange meditation on the anguish of addiction and the difficulties African-Americans face in retaining their cultural identity.

          The movie is as formless and languid as a dream, so even though Ganja & Hess delivers many standard horror elements, such as bloody knife attacks and gruesome scenes of characters lapping up plasma, it’s clear from the first frames that Gunn is trying to create an artistic experience instead of a horror show. Whether he achieves his goal is up to each viewer; some cinephiles consider this picture an unsung masterpiece, but there’s no way to overlook the ineptitude of the film’s technical execution. The cinematography is grainy and erratic, with some shots artfully composed and others seemingly rushed; the sound recording is abysmal; and the acting is all over the place.

          Leading man Duane Jones, best known for his starring role in Night of the Living Dead (1968), cuts a striking figure with his expressive face and lean build, but he’s not particularly charismatic. Leading lady Marlene Clark has mesmerizing eyes, but some of her line readings are so amateurish they shatter whatever illusion Gunn is trying to create.

          As for the story, it’s the usual bloodsucker lore, but with a multicultural twist. The tale begins when a scientist (Jones) gets stabbed with a knife bearing the ancient curse of an African tribe. Even though the word “vampire” is never used in the movie, the curse gives the scientist an insatiable thirst for blood. Despite his affliction, he falls for and marries the wife (Clark) of his assailant, leading to her inevitable indoctrination into the world of vampirism. Since the story is rather trite, what makes Ganja & Hess noteworthy is the way Gunn weaves cultural, psychological, and sexual symbolism into the narrative.

          Montages feature characters writhing in pain or pleasure while Gunn dissolves to shots of African tribal rituals or other such visuals; these scenes are fused by a fevered soundtrack blending atonal music, driving rhythmic patterns, and weird utterances like grunts and screams. Gunn also uses awkward jump cuts within scenes, perhaps because he’s trying to simulate the strange sense of time that someone who cannot die might experience. The sum effect of Gunn’s art-house flourishes is that Ganja & Hess feels like a bizarre hybrid of intellectualized style and lame-brained content. Some may find this thrilling, and some (like me) may find it dull and pretentious, but Ganja & Hess is inarguably unique.

Ganja & Hess: FREAKY