The Great Santini (1979)

          Robert Duvall was mostly known for brilliant supporting performances until the title role in this melodramatic family story finally allowed the singular actor to display a full spectrum of colors. Portraying U.S. Marine Corps pilot Lt. Col. “Bull” Meechum, Duvall showboats while displaying the character’s mischievous side, torments innocents when exhibiting the man’s mean streak, and unravels while revealing the character’s deep-rooted psychological turbulence. Duvall was entrusted with only one more equally dimensional role—in the poetic character study Tender Mercies (1983)—before slipping into a long run of high-paying but largely unchallenging supporting roles in the ’80s and early ’90s. Given this set of circumstances, The Great Santini and Tender Mercies remain two of the most important artifacts demonstrating Duvall’s unique gifts at full power.

          Adapted by Lewis John Carlino (who also directed) and Herman Raucher from a semiautobiographical novel by Pat Conroy, The Great Santini takes place in 1962 South Carolina. Meechum, whose nickname is “The Great Santini” even though he’s Irish, is a hard-driving soldier who feels lost between wars. Unable to take out his aggressions on enemy combatants, Meechum bullies his family even as his wife, Lillian (Blythe Danner), and their four kids adjust to life in a new city. Receiving special abuse is Meechum’s oldest son, Ben (Michael O’Keefe), a high-school basketball player struggling to understand why his father is such a hero on the battlefield and such a monster at home.

          Carlino, who only directed three films (the others are the erotic 1976 drama The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sa and the flimsy 1986 teen-sex comedy Class), presents Conroy’s narrative in a beautifully unvarnished way, so the best moments in The Great Santini are the most intimate ones. For instance, it’s hard to forget the brutal scene of Meechum repeatedly bouncing a basketball against Ben’s head, forcing the boy to cry as a means of validating Meechum’s alpha-male role. In fact, nearly every scene featuring Duvall is memorable, because he creates such a full-blooded characterization—Duvall preens, rages, struts, yells and generally releases his character’s sociopathic id, incarnating a mini-Patton without a worthy adversary. And yet for all of the flamboyance the actor brings to the role, the true beauty of Duvall’s performance is the deep sympathy he conveys for Meechum; with Duvall as our guide into this man’s troubled soul, we learn to love a character who does hateful things.

          Young costar O’Keefe, appearing in one of his fist features after several years of TV work, gives as good as he gets, offering plaintive sincerity to counter Duvall’s masterful blend of personality traits. The elegant Danner, meanwhile, reveals the fortitude that allows her character to thrive in a difficult marriage. The Great Santini is so dramatically compelling and emotionally truthful that it seems a shame to note its flaws, but there’s no denying the contrived nature of a subplot involving Ben’s black friend, Toomer (Stan Shaw). Injecting wobbly elements of racism, sacrifice, and tragedy into the story, the subplot eventually leads someplace important, but getting there isn’t the smoothest ride. That said, Shaw’s work is deeply affecting, and costar David Keith, who figures in the subplot, makes a vivid bad guy. The bottom line, however, is that The Great Santini is robust entertainment powered by extraordinary acting. Like its main character, the movie is imperfect and impossible to ignore.

The Great Santini: RIGHT ON

Mr. Sycamore (1975)

          It seems that for every major film the great actor Jason Robards elevated with an inspired supporting turn, there was a minor film in which he gave a middling lead performance. Watching Mr. Sycamore, which is somewhat typical of the films in which Robards played the main role, it’s tempting to say that the actor’s occasional lack of fire stems from the quality gap between the material Robards played on the stage and the material he was given in films—Mr. Sycamore is whimsical, but it’s tonally flat. Based on a story by Robert Ayre and a play by Ketti Frings, Mr. Sycamore concerns a postman named John Gwilt (Robards), who becomes preoccupied with an ancient myth about a man who transformed into a tree. Determined to replicate the magical change, John quits his job and plants himself in his backyard. This understandably concerns his long-suffering wife, mousy Jane (Sandy Dennis), who calls in cops, friends, a priest, and mental-health professionals. Meanwhile, during scenes when he’s not ankle-deep in dirt, John finds a sympathetic ear with a local librarian, Estelle Benbow (Jean Simmons), who shares his affection for romantic legends.

          The not-so-subtle allegory is that John is a poetic soul trapped in an unimaginative age, so his marriage to Jane represents conformity and his flirtation with Estelle represents individualism. The problem, of course, is that Mr. Sycamore takes its central metaphor too literally—John genuinely believes he will become a tree, so he’s not portrayed, per se, as a heroic character making a stand for his right to believe as he wishes. As such, the story has no place to go except either a fantastical ending or a disappointing one. Worse, screenwriters Pancho Kohner (who also directed) and Ketti Frings run out of narrative material at regular intervals, padding the movie with drab slapstick bits, a couple of inconsequential storms, and even a gauzy dream sequence. Had Mr. Sycamore been made as a short television play, it could have been wonderful. In this form, it’s merely kind-hearted and trivial.

           Still, Robards’ rascally charm suits the main character perfectly (even if, as noted earlier, he contributes far less than optimal effort), and the women in the story are cast well—the visual contrast between glamorous Simmons and plain Dennis is striking. It’s also worth nothing that Mr. Sycamore picks up considerably in its second half, so patience is rewarded with a few amusingly farcical moments. Furthermore, composer Maurice Jarre amplifies key scenes with lyrical music, though additional underscore would have been preferable to the intrusion of “Time Goes By,” a twee song that Jarre co-wrote for the aforementioned dream sequence.

Mr. Sycamore: FUNKY

The Hanged Man (1974)

          Borrowing a gimmick from the Clint Eastwood Westerns High Plains Drifter (1973), this enjoyable telefilm was designed as a pilot, although no series resulted. Starring square-jawed Steve Forrest (later of S.W.A.T. fame), the movie includes a pulpy mixture of pop-psychology existentialism and Saturday-matinee violence. Forrest plays James Devlin, a gunfighter condemned to die based on sketchy evidence. Resigned to paying for past crimes even if he’s innocent of the current charges, Devlin endures his hanging with dignity—but survives because of faulty execution equipment and the dosing of his last meal with laudanum by a sympathetic doctor. Given a second chance at life, Devlin stumbles into the affairs of Carrie Gault (Sharon Acker), a widow being preyed upon by avaricious businessman Lew Halleck (Cameron Mitchell).

          The twist of the story is that because Devlin was legally “killed,” he’s got a blank slate as far as the law is concerned—at least until he commits a new crime. Therefore, Devlin must mete out justice without reckless gunplay. This is a solid setup for escapist entertainment, even if the filmmakers make the obvious mistake of portraying Devlin as a saint—despite the lip service given to past misdeeds, he’s never shown doing anything less than noble. Nonetheless, because The Hanged Man runs only 73 minutes, the one-dimensional characterization gets the job done.

          It helps, of course, that Forrest cuts an impressive figure, with his booming voice and imposing frame. Furthermore, director Michael Caffey lends more visual pizzazz to key scenes than one usually finds in workaday telefilms of the era. Caffey’s best flourishes occur during the final showdown between Devlin and Halleck, which is set inside a darkened foundry. By having Devlin drift in and out of clouds of smoke, and by having Halleck linger in the glow of blazing yellow and red lights, Caffey conveys the strong sense of a supernatural avenger delivering a damned man to hell. In fact, theological allusions appear throughout The Hanged Man. When this aspect of the picture doesn’t work, clumsy scenes such as the bit of Devlin screaming “Why, God?” result. Yet on several occasions—for instance, the scene when Devlin shows his noose scar to the widow Gault’s incredulous son—The Hanged Man approaches questions about what obligations people have to spend wisely the time they’re given by larger forces.

          That said, I freely acknowledge my occasional tendency to give movies credit for what they almost achieved, and The Hanged Man is a beneficiary of this generosity. In other words, consider these laudatory remarks to be praise for the better film lurking inside The Hanged Man, since the actual movie is in the most important regards quite ordinary.

The Hanged Man: FUNKY

Adam at Six A.M. (1970)

          There’s an amusing parallel to be found between the star and the subject matter of Adam at Six A.M., a well-made post-Graduate character study about a young intellectual who rebels against the psychological constraints of middle-class society. Like the protagonist, leading man Michael Douglas, the eldest child of Hollywood legend Kirk Douglas, gained career access because of his father’s accomplishments. Unlike the protagonist, however, Michael Douglas dove headlong into the family business. The story begins with Adam Gaines (Douglas) completing a school year as an assistant professor of semantics at a West Coast university. At first glance, he seems to possess all the trappings of success—a snazzy car, a steady job, and a sultry girlfriend, Joyce (Meg Foster). Yet when Adam receives word that a relative has died in Missouri, he impulsively ditches his comfortable situation for a road trip, curious to experience the textures of a simpler lifestyle. Immediately upon arriving in small-town America, Adam meets recent high-school graduate Jerri Jo Hopper (Lee Purcell), a pretty and sweet girl who is dazzled by Adam’s big-city bona fides. Then Adam takes a job on a road crew alongside amiable hick Harvey Garvin (Joe Don Baker), marking an abrupt shift from cerebral endeavors to physical labor.

          Once all the pieces of the story are in place, screenwriters Elinor and Steven Karpf reveal that Adam has traded one social trap for another, so narrative tension emanates from the question of whether Adam can find a niche for himself in the Midwest. The Karpfs’ script is generally quite strong, with sensitive characterizations and thoughtful dialogue—as well as a few artfully constructed visual metaphors—and the movie as a whole walks a fine line between objectively depicting and snidely satirizing the people who fill America’s heartland. (For instance, the central love story works because Jerri Jo is shown to be more complex and savvy than a mere girl-next-door caricature.) There’s no question that the filmmakers’ sympathies lie with Adam—who represents the existential malaise of late ’60s/early ’70s youth culture—but Adam at Six A.M. plays fair because the hurtful consequences of the lead character’s I-gotta-be-me decisions are clearly dramatized. And if the film’s final images hit with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, everyone involved in the picture gets points for trying to say something meaningful in a literary way.

          In terms of technical execution, Robert Scheerer’s smooth direction keeps scenes brisk and purposeful, and the acting is solid. Douglas underplays effectively, accentuating his character’s amusement at provincial attitudes without coming across as smug, and Purcell illustrates the iron will hidden behind her character’s unassuming demeanor. Baker lays on his signature good-ole-boy charm, contributing humor and menace in equal measure, and indestructible character actor Dana Elcar delivers a vivid turn in a small but crucial part as a judgmental townie.

Adam at Six A.M.: GROOVY

Willard (1971) & Ben (1972)

          Easily one of the strangest wide-release pictures of the early ’70s, Willard starts off as the character study of a deranged individual, and then it gradually morphs into a horror movie. Oh, and it’s also a love story of sorts between the lead character, a twentysomething misfit, and an extraordinary rat named Ben. The film’s sequel, Ben, pushes the formula even further by putting the titular vermin together with a new human, a horribly ill young boy who considers Ben a terrific pal even though the rat frequently leads thousands of rodents on murderous rampages. The inherent weirdness of these two films is encapsulated by the most noteworthy element of either picture, “Ben’s Song,” a gentle ballad that’s sung over the closing credits of Ben by Michael Jackson at the height of his early Jackson 5 fame. Like the song, both films approach bizarre subject matter with complete sincerity, which makes for singular viewing experiences.

          Based on novel by Stephen Gilbert titled Ratman’s Notebooks and written for the screen by Gilbert Ralston, Willard compounds the oddity of its premise with a fairy-tale narrative approach. Willard Stiles (Bruce Davison) works for overbearing businessman Al Martin (Ernest Borgnine), who played a role in the business failure and death of Willard’s father. Meanwhile, Willard lives with his aging but smothering mother, Henrietta (Elsa Lanchester), in a stately house. Forgetful, introverted, and nervous, Willard makes an easy target for Al’s bullying and Henrietta’s nagging. One afternoon, Willard meets a group of rats in his backyard, subsequently adopting them as playmates. Then, once he moves the rodents into his basement and starts teaching them tricks—even as the group expands through breeding to include thousands of critters—Willard realizes he can use the rats to exact revenge against his oppressors.

          The movie takes a long time to reach the point when Willard leads his skittering soldiers into combat, but Davison gives such a twitchy performance that it’s interesting to watch Willard spiral into madness. (Good luck shaking the image of Davison hanging out in the basement with a rodent on his shoulder and dozens of other rats literally crawling the walls around him.) As directed by studio-era helmer Daniel Mann, whose so-so filmography includes the Oscar-winning Elizabeth Taylor vehicle Butterfield 8 (1960), Willard evolves from campy to gruesome, so it’s impossible to take the film seriously. Nonetheless, the protagonist is quasi-sympathetic until he goes too far, so the character’s arc is similar to that of Norman Bates in Psycho (1960). Better still, the film’s final act is a tastefully photographed bloodbath sure to cause shudders among even the hardiest of viewers. That said, it’s a mystery why composer Alex North scored most of the movie with bouncy comic cues and triumphant marches—although the music certainly adds to the overall peculiarity.

          Ben, which was directed by action specialist Phil Karlson, is an almost completely different type of film from its predecessor. In fact, Ben is really two movies in one. The main relationship story, about Ben’s new friendship with fragile youth Danny (Lee Montgomery), is so gentle that it includes comedy and music scenes. Yet the main action story, about Ben’s nocturnal adventures immediately following the events of the first film, is bloody and violent. Ben’s four-legged army starts claiming victims within the first 10 minutes, and the movie is filled with shots of grown men screaming as their bodies are swallowed by hordes of rodents. Later, once officials track down the culprits for various deaths and incidents of property damage, all-out war ensues. (Key image: City workers advance through sewer tunnels wielding flamethrowers, killing rats by the score.) Yet somehow, these disparate elements hang together in a ridiculous sort of way. As he did with his next film, the redneck-vigilante classic Walking Tall (1973), Karlson keeps things moving so fast that viewers can’t stop to smell the insanity.

          The cast of Ben is strictly C-grade, with future TV mom Meredith Baxter playing Danny’s sister and journeyman players including Norman Alden, Joseph Campanella, Arthur O’Connell, and Kenneth Tobey filling out the various upporting roles. (Although Stephen Gilbert penned Ben as well as Willard, the writer’s character work is much more slack on the sequel.) Since Ben is basically a creature feature, however, the acting is much less important than the work of the animal wranglers and FX technicians who make the murderous monsters look convincing. FYI, Willard was remade in 2003, with eccentric actor Crispin Glover in the lead, though a revamp of Ben has yet to emerge. And in a particularly odd footnote, actress Sondra Locke, who costars in the original Willard, later made her directorial debut with a film titled—wait for it!—Ratboy (1986).

Willard: FUNKY

Ben: FUNKY

Crescendo (1970)

          Though primarily known for sexualized creature features set in the 19th century (or earlier), UK horror/thriller factory Hammer Films generated different types of films, as well. Take Crescendo. Not only does the picture tell a contemporary story bereft of supernatural elements, it stars a primarily American cast. And while the movie has plenty of flaws, such as a predictable climax and a slow pace, the whole thing is so sexy, sinister, and stylish that it’s worth a casual viewing.
          In many ways, Crescendo resembles a lost Hitchcock movie, although Hitchcock would have cast an icy blonde in the lead instead of a sexy redhead. The movie concerns Susan Roberts (Stefanie Powers), a graduate student who visits an estate in southern France in order to research a thesis on a deceased composer. Currently residing in the estate are the composer’s widow, Danielle (Margaretta Scott), the composer’s wheelchair-bound adult son, Georges (James Olson), and two servants. At first, Susan regards her new temporary home as a sort of paradise, enjoying elegant meals and refreshing dips in the estate’s massive pool. But the more time she spends with the Ryman family, the more Susan realizes she’s been recruited by Danielle to replace a woman named Catherine, who was George’s lover until he became paralyzed. Meanwhile, audiences learn lurid facts to which Susan is not privy, such as the twisted nature of Georges’ relationship with the estate’s nubile maid, Lillianne (Jane Lapotaire).

          As written by reliable Hammer scribe Jimmy Sangster (who reconfigured an earlier script by Alfred Shaughnessy), Crescendo eschews the jolts and murder scenes one normally associates with Hammer, opting instead for the slow burn of psychological terror. There’s no question that Crescendo would have been more effective if an actress of subtler gifts had been cast in the leading role, but Powers is sufficiently alluring and likeable to avoid completely undercutting the movie’s efficacy. Plus, the fact that she spends much of her screen time in bikinis and negligees adds considerably to the film’s appeal.

          Yet don’t let the showcasing of a pretty starlet give the impression that Crescendo is a lowbrow endeavor. Director Alan Gibson and cinematographer Paul Beeson give the picture a truly elegant look, with artful lighting, graceful camera moves, and meticulous compositions. Shooting almost entirely on soundstages (even for the pool scenes), the filmmakers amplify artifice to bolster the lead character’s sense of having been trapped in some weird netherworld. As for the acting, it’s mostly serviceable, with Olson and Powers contributing blandly professional work—although costars Lapotaire and Scott seize on the perverse aspects of their roles, giving the movie extra heat. Crescendo might not linger in the memory too long after a viewing, but it’s a glamorous distraction that adds a surprising twist to the story of Hammer Films.

Crescendo: GROOVY

Lost and Found (1979)

          Despite being made by the same creative team as A Touch of Class (1973), which received four Oscar nominations and won a Best Actress prize for leading lady Glenda Jackson, the middling romantic comedy Lost and Found did not enjoy as warm a reception. Although Jackson and her Touch of Class costar, George Segal, both deliver highly professional comic performances, the script by Melvin Frank (who also directed) and Jack Rose is screechy and strained, wobbling between half-hearted slapstick sequences and overwritten dialogue scenes. Worse, both of the film’s lead characters come across as demanding, nasty, and smug, so there’s not much pleasure to be found in watching their courtship. Accordingly, while the movie is handsomely made and peppered with bright moments, the overall enterprise feels unnecessarily laborious. Adding insult to injury, Lost and Found also comes across as a hyperactive strain of the same narrative DNA that playwright/screenwriter Neil Simon explored much more effectively in a subsequent 1979 release, Chapter Two. Both movies try to amuse and touch audiences in similar ways, but Lost and Found tries harder and with less success, making for a somewhat tiresome viewing experience.

          Lost and Found starts at a European ski resort, where American professor Adam (Segal) and British divorcée Tricia (Jackson) crash into each other—twice!—in a wheezy example of the romantic-comedy staple, the “meet-cute.” After transitioning from acrimony to affection, the couple marries and returns to Adam’s home in the U.S., where he teaches at a small college. Marital strife ensues, because Adam hides several important facts from his new bride: He doesn’t tell her that his shot at tenure is endangered, that he’s fallen behind on his dissertation, and that one of his research assistants is a former lover. Oh, and he’s also got an overbearing mother, Jemmy (Maureen Stapleton), and a circle of academic friends who degrade themselves by kissing up to administrators. Tricia makes a valiant attempt at learning to love her new circumstances, but once Adam’s duplicity and narcissism become intolerable, she lashes out with barbs and tantrums.

          On the plus side, since writers Frank and Rose both earned their stripes as jokesmiths for Bob Hope, a number of the one-liners in Lost and Found crackle. For instance, the embittered Tricia describes the average nubile home-wrecker as “age 22, bust 38, intelligence negligible.” Frank and Rose also have fun with supporting character Reilly (Paul Sorvino), a motor-mouthed cab driver who becomes important in the movie’s final act. Yet because the myriad extended Jackson-Segal scenes are the main attraction, the absence of magic from those scenes is nearly a fatal flaw.

Lost and Found: FUNKY

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! (1978)

          If you’ve heard of this cult-favorite comedy, chances are you’ve also heard that it’s considered one of the worst movies ever made. And while Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! is indeed quite bad, featuring everything from lifeless acting to ridiculously cheap production values, it’s hard to criticize a picture that was designed to accentuate its own awfulness. After all, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! is a spoof of grade-B creature features, and in lieu of a plot, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! features wall-to-wall infantile jokes. As the title explains, this goofy picture imagines a nationwide rampage by vengeful tomatoes (some of which are gigantic), and the special effects used to illustrate this phenomenon are crude in the extreme. During several scenes, actors stand still while tomatoes are lobbed at them by offscreen crew members, and during one bit, a giant mock-up tomato is rolled toward a victim on a wheeled palette that’s visible in the frame. Most of the film depicts the efforts of government officials to prevent the public from panicking, so the picture follows White House Press Secretary Jim Richardson (George Wilson) as he hires an ad man to make PSAs; civilian authority Mason Dixon (David Miller) as he supervises the response of private and public organizations; and idiotic soldier Lt. Wilbur Finletter (J. Stephen Pace) as he plans a military assault.

          The film’s combination of fourth-wall-breaking jokes and musical numbers owes a lot to Mel Brooks, though Brooks on his worst day could easily top this film’s best gags. (How lame are the jokes? When Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! cuts to a shot of the San Francisco skyline, text reading “New York?” appears onscreen.) Plus, suffice to say that none of the musical sequences in Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!—even the robustly sung title number—approach the sublime silliness of, say, the “I’m Tired” number in Brooks’ Blazing Saddles (1974). That said, a fast pace and an upbeat vibe ensure that Attack of the Killer Tomatoes! provides a glimmer of amusement every few minutes. So, even though this tomato is closer to rotten than ripe, it’s still basically edible. (To belabor the analogy, however, expect indigestion afterwards.) Unlikely as it may seem, this humble little movie planted the seed for a mini-franchise, because director/co-writer John De Bello returned to the material for three sequels, beginning with Return of the Killer Tomatoes! (1988), which features a young George Clooney in the cast; additionally, a cartoon series, comic books, a novel, and videogames bearing the Killer Tomatoes brand have been released.

Attack of the Killer Tomatoes!: FUNKY

Journey Back to Oz (1974)

          The most noteworthy aspect of Journey Back to Oz, a slipshod animated sequel to the classic live-action movie The Wizard of Oz (1939), is the fact that Liza Minnelli provides the voice of intrepid heroine Dorothy Gale. (Minnelli’s mother, legendary entertainer Judy Garland, played the role in The Wizard of Oz.) Minnelli acts the part with passion and sweetness, singing several songs with her signature gusto, but the novelty of her presence isn’t sufficient to make Journey Back to Oz feel special. Setting aside the film’s second-rate visuals—production company Filmation’s crude style falls somewhere between the cheapness of Hanna-Barbera and the elegance of Walt Disney—the main problem is the story, an unimaginative retread of the original film. When Journey Back to Oz begins, Dorothy is once again bored in Kansas, wishing for a return visit with her magical friends. A cyclone conveniently appears, plopping Dorothy on the side of the Yellow Brick Road. She meets several new friends, discovers that the kingdom is once again threatened by a wicked witch, and rallies new and old pals to help restore order.

          Even though the makers of Journey Back to Oz borrowed liberally from the work of L. Frank Baum—the creator of the Oz universe—new characters and contrivances fail to impress. The Signpost (Jack E. Leonard) is a likeable dunderhead patterned after the original story’s Scarecrow; Woodenhead Pinto Stallion III, a wooden horse, serves the same valiant-but-clumsy function as the original story’s Tin Man; and so on. Worse, beloved characters appear in disappointing iterations. For instance, the Cowardly Lion is portrayed as having lost the nerve he gained with Dorothy’s help, and the Scarecrow, though now King of Oz, is a non-presence who spends most of the story in captivity. Furthermore, Filmation’s strategy of frontloading the voice cast with famous actors is distracting, because each of the actors adheres to his or her familiar persona. For instance, Ethel Merman delivers obnoxiously loud vocals as the witch Mombi, while Paul Lynde, portraying the new character Pumpkinhead, sounds like his usual bitchy-queen self.

          Yet another problem is the film’s song score, penned by Hollywood pros Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, because the numbers are hopelessly trite compared to the magical tunes in The Wizard of Oz. The Cahn-Van Heusen numbers range from the saccharine (“Keep a Happy Thought”) to the embarrassingly blunt (“That Feeling for Home”). Ultimately, Journey Back to Os doesn’t trample on fond memories—as did the bizarre live-action 1985 sequel Return to Oz—but the whole thing feels half-assed and unnecessary. No wonder the picture flopped during its initial theatrical release. Nonetheless, Journey Back to Oz found an audience when it was resuscitated for television a short while later, with new live-action bits featuring Bill Cosby created to bracket the original animated feature.

Journey Back to Oz: FUNKY

Wacky Taxi (1972)

Perhaps because the history of screen comedy is filled with hyphenates, from Charlie Chaplin to Jerry Lewis to Ben Stiller, myriad successful comic actors have felt compelled to attempt writing, producing, and/or directing. The results of these experiments are often grisly. For instance, funnyman John Astin (of The Addams Family fame) more than exceeded the limits of his artistry by co-directing, with Alexander Grasshoff, this harmless but poorly made and profoundly unfunny flick about a fed-up factory worker who quits his job to become an independent cab driver. Made on a meager budget and saddled with a no-name supporting cast, the picture gets off to a wobbly start and never recovers. The opening scene introduces Astin, who is not Latino, as Pepper, a Mexican-American patriarch living in San Diego. Before the audience is given any explanation of the character, Pepper walks off the assembly line and buys a car, which he paints with taxi markings, and then starts looking for fares. A good 20 minutes of screen time elapse before Pepper’s brother-in-law, an attorney named Jaimie (Ralph James), explains that Pepper needs a hack license and insurance to operate legally. How are viewers supposed to root for a character who is so oblivious and reckless, especially since he’s the breadwinner for a family that includes a wife and five children? Had any of the scenes featuring Pepper’s cab-driving misadventures been amusing, the story flaws might have been easier to overlook. Unfortunately, each such scene is less imaginative than the preceding—Pepper gets lost driving to an airport, the cab suffers engine failure, a mystery lady uses the cab for some unknown crime that might be prostitution or smuggling. (The editing is so choppy that significant facts get lost in the shuffle.) Although Astin has a few charming moments, mostly when he’s making caustic asides about misfortune, the overall flow of the movie is so drab, erratic, and repetitive that mining for gold in the lead performance becomes a chore.

Wacky Taxi: LAME

Once Upon a Scoundrel (1974)

There’s a half-decent satirical notion buried inside the tiresome comedy Once Upon a Scoundrel, and the movie offers a large serving of star Zero Mostel’s signature overbearing charm. For those two reasons, it’s likely that some viewers will find the picture amusing, albeit forgettable. However, the same qualities that might be interpreted as virtues could just as easily be perceived as shortcomings. After all, the satirical notion—an entire community of people pretends that a living man is an unseen ghost, with the goal of driving him nuts—gets stretched way past the point of believability. As for Mostel, let’s just say that a little goes a long way, and Once Upon a Scoundrel has much more than a little of the actor mugging, preening, and screaming. He’s simultaneously entertaining and exhausting, in equal measure. He’s also absurdly miscast as a Mexican. Mostel plays Don Carlos del Refugio, the tyrannical overlord of a poor Mexican village. Don Carlos has the hots for local peasant girl Alicia (Priscilla Garcia), but she’s in love with wide-eyed laborer Luis (A Martinez). Don Carlos pulls a scheme to get Luis thrown in jail, then says he’ll only release Luis if Alicia contents to marriage. Fed up with Don Carlos’ villainy, the locals drug Don Carlos and perform a funeral, making Don Carlos believe he’s died and come back as a specter. In the hands of some screen-comedy master, perhaps Ernest Lubitsch or Billy Wilder, this premise might have led to broad-as-a-barn hilarity. Alas, the team behind Once Upon a Scoundrel has the clumsy approach one normally associates with bad sitcoms, a problem compounded by the presence of a strictly workaday cast. (Snce Mostel sucks up so much oxygen, formidable actors would have been needed to counter the star’s manic energy.) Thus, Once Upon a Scoundrel ends up feeling dull and flat, particularly during long stretches in which the jokes simply don’t connect. And, wow, is the final sequence awful, seeing as how it lends a morbid quality to an otherwise innocuous movie. Holding the disparate parts of Once Upon a Scoundrel together is a robust score by the great Alex North, whose music is the movie’s sole unassailable element.

Once Upon a Scoundrel: FUNKY

The Gospel Road (1973)

          Ungallant as it may seem to criticize any artist who feels driven to share his religious passions with the world, it would be irresponsible to describe The Gospel Road—alternately and more ponderously titled Gospel Road: A Story of Jesus—as anything other than bizarre. Johnny Cash, the legendary country singer-songwriter known as much for his bad-boy antics as for his indelible tunes, might seem more attitudinally aligned with Christ’s opposite number than with the Lamb of God, and yet here he is onscreen, wearing full “Man in Black” regalia, as he recites passages from the Bible and gives country-preacher sermons about Jesus’ life story. Even though this project seems deeply sincere, it’s also deeply weird to see Cash standing atop a mountain in Israel, where the picture was filmed, and to hear his familiar book-chicka-boom rhythm in a movie that also includes the Last Supper and the Crucifixion.

          Created as a companion piece to Cash’s 1973 double album of the same name, The Gospel Road comprises shots of Cash, re-creations of Bible scenes that are accompanied by Cash-penned ditties, and re-creations that are accompanied by lush orchestral numbers, also culled from Cash’s album. (Snippets of dialogue appear, too.) Cash performs most of the songs, though he recruited pals including Kris Kristofferson and the Statler Brothers to handle certain tunes. Plus, inevitably, Cash’s wife, June Carter Cash, makes an appearance—not only does June play Mary Magdalene (thus gifting Mary with an inexplicable Virginia twang), but she performs the sweet pop ballad “Follow Me,” which was written by that icon of theological insight, John Denver. The mind reels, especially when a straight-faced Johnny Cash intones such remarks as, “I think if I was a little-bitty kid, if Jesus had come by, I would have run to him.” (Okay, one more: “Mary Magdalene was the kind of woman that Jesus had a lot of love and compassion for.” You don’t say, Johnny!)

           Adding to the overall oddness of the piece is the fact that adult Jesus is played by the film’s director, Robert Elfstrom, who looks more like a Viking than a child of Jerusalem. On the plus side, though, Elfstrom’s bland non-acting is easier to take than June’s overwrought attempts at simulating spiritual ecstasy. Somehow, Johnny Cash manages to get through the movie with his dignity intact, perhaps because never slips into period clothing. Still, this picture is unlikely to qualify as a must-see for any but the devoutly Christian or the devoutly Cashian—which, if it isn’t a word, probably should be.

The Gospel Road: FUNKY

The Greek Tycoon (1978)

          There are at least three ways to watch The Greek Tycoon, a fictionalized take on the marriage of presidential widow Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy and Greek shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. (Well, four ways, if you count the option of skipping the movie altogether.) Firstly, you can watch the film in abject horror at the crass exploitation of human tragedy. Secondly, you can experience the movie as a campy jet-set melodrama. And thirdly, you can cut the filmmakers a whole lot of slack by enjoying the piece as the downbeat character study of a larger-than-life individual whose money bought him everything except lasting happiness and social respectability.
          Released in 1978, just three years after Onassis’ death, The Greek Tycoon is among the most shameless cinematic endeavors ever “ripped from the headlines.” Most of the sensational aspects of the Kennedy-Onassis relationship are replicated here—the assassination of a president, the arrangement of a multimillion-dollar marriage contract, the luxury of life on a giant yacht, the controversial business deals. And for everything the filmmakers subtract from the source material (notably absent are stand-ins for Kennedy’s children), the team behind The Greek Tycoon adds in something just as salacious, because the movie features a conniving brother, a suicidal ex-wife, and a tempestuous mistress. It’s all exactly as glamorously trashy as it sounds, right down to the quasi-lookalike casting of Jacqueline Bisset as Kennedy and Anthony Quinn as Onassis. (Perpetually tanned movie/TV hunk James Franciscus appears, somewhat inconsequentially, as The Greek Tycoon’s version of JFK.)
          In the film’s storyline, Theo Tomassis (Quinn) first meets Liz Cassidy (Bisset) and her husband, James Cassidy (Franciscus), while James is a Congressman prepping a presidential campaign. Later, after Liz suffers a miscarriage while living in the White House, she leaves D.C. for a recuperative vacation with Theo in Greece. Then, a year after an assassin shoots and kills James, Liz accepts Theo’s marriage proposal, but with a slew of conditions—such as agreeing to share Theo’s bed only 10 nights each month.

          The Greek Tycoon is a cartoonish riff on history, but the production values are pleasant—cinematographer Anthony Richmond shoots the hell out of the film’s gorgeous Greek locations—and Quinn overacts with his usual operatic verve. Conversely, Bisset and costars Edward Albert (as Theo’s son), Charles Durning (as a U.S. politician), and Raf Vallone (as Theo’s brother) play the material straight, which is unwise. Versatile helmer J. Lee Thompson, who years earlier directed Quinn in The Guns of Navarone (1961), orchestrates the whole silly/tacky endeavor with his usual impersonal proficiency.

The Greek Tycoon: FUNKY

Paper Moon (1973)

          When movie stars invite their children to act with them, the results usually range from embarrassing to forgettable—but every so often, something like Paper Moon happens. Featuring a spectacular debut performance by preteen Tatum O’Neal and a charmingly gruff star turn by her famous father, Ryan O’Neal, the movie both satisfies and undercuts audience expectations of what might occur when real-life relatives perform together onscreen. The movie has heart, but more importantly, it has edge—since many of the best scenes in Paper Moon feature the O’Neals sparring with each other, it’s impossible to mistake the picture for a softhearted love letter from a father to a daughter. Somehow, producer-director Peter Bogdanovich sensed a vein of natural conflict in the dynamic between the O’Neals, and then the filmmaker channeled that conflict into the fictional relationship of a 1930s con man and a girl who may or may not be his daughter.

          Better still, Bogdanovich ensured that the sparks flying between the O’Neals were only part of the movie’s appeal. In addition to the memorable father-daughter acting, Paper Moon features crisp storytelling, sparkling dialogue, stunning black-and-white cinematography, and vivacious supporting performances. It’s a near-masterpiece that only happens to contain effective stunt casting.

          Masterfully adapted by Alvin Sargent from a novel by Joe David Brown, Paper Moon takes place during the Depression, hence Bogdanovich’s choice to present the story with monochromatic visuals that evoke the photography of the Depression era. Flimflam artist Moses Pray (Ryan O’Neal) attends the funeral of a former lover, where he meets scrappy nine-year-old Addie Loggins (Tatum O’Neal), whom he realizes might be his daughter. Through delightfully contrived circumstances—the plot comes together with Swiss-watch precision that echoes Moses’ elaborate scams—Addie pressures Moses into taking her along for a lengthy auto journey. A quick study, Addie finds a role for herself in Moses’ principal scheme of selling personalized Bibles to the widows of recently deceased men, so the main characters’ natural instinct for bonding gets sublimated into the formation of a criminal enterprise.

          Bogdanovich milks this perverse premise for all it’s worth, opting for the rich drama of betrayals, disappointments, and double-crosses instead of trying for easy sentimentality. Yet woven into nearly every scene of the movie is deftly crafted humor, an element maximized by the impeccable comic timing of Bogdanovich’s actors. In fact, one of the juiciest subplots involves Moses’ relationship with a woman of ill repute named Trixie Delight, played by the magnificent comedienne Madeline Kahn, who made her big-screen debut in Bogdanovich’s hit farce What’s Up Doc? (1972). Demonstrating the skill of the film’s narrative construction, the speed with which Moses throws over Addie in order to court Trixie reveals the limitations of Moses’ integrity and the sad fate awaiting Addie unless Moses grows a conscience.

          While sensitive character work is ultimately what makes Paper Moon meaningful, the style is what makes the movie sing. Working with cinematographer Lászlo Kovács, Bogdanovich creates intimate textures throughout Paper Moon, especially during long takes that the director fills with rat-a-tat dialogue. Like the best of Bogdanovich’s early movies, Paper Moon feels handcrafted, with equal care given to characterization, emotion, mood, pace, and tone.

          As such, if there’s a minor complaint that one could make about Paper Moon, it’s that Bogdanovich seems just as concerned with announcing his incandescent talent as he is in telling the story. But then again, since Paper Moon was made when the very gifted director was at the height of his powers, it’s hard to blame him for showboating. And since the film earned an Academy Award for Tatum O’Neal (making her the youngest-ever winner of a competitive acting Oscar), as well as a nomination for screenwriter Sargent, the director’s grandstanding clearly did not obscure the remarkable contributions of his collaborators.

Paper Moon: RIGHT ON

Cotton Comes to Harlem (1970) & Come Back, Charleston Blue (1972)

          Most reputable sources peg 1971, the year of Shaft and Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, as the beginning of blaxploitation—yet two 1970 releases, Cotton Comes to Harlem and They Call Me MISTER Tibbs!, contain many signifiers closely associated with the genre. For instance, both movies include funky soundtracks, primarily black casts, and urban milieus. Tibbs!, of cousrse, is a sequel In the Heat of the Night (1967), whereas Cotton Comes to Harlem, cowritten and directed by African-American actor/playwright/activist Ossie Davis, is a whimsical celebration of modern black life, depicting a wide range of characters occupying a spectrum of social stations. Exploitation? Far from it. That’s why Cotton Comes to Harlem is interesting as a cultural milestone. As entertainment, however, Cotton Comes to Harlem isn’t quite as noteworthy.

          Based on a novel by Chester Himes, the movie is absurdly over-plotted and overpopulated, with a story that’s alternately difficult to believe and difficult to follow. The shortest possible summary is this: After a robbery/shootout disturbs a public rally, black NYPD detectives Coffin Ed Johnson (Raymond St. Jacques) and Gravedigger Jones (Godfrey Cambridge) investigate a criminal conspiracy related to flamboyant preacher Duke O’Malley (Calvin Lockhart). A wild chase/investigation involving angry citizens, drugs, drunks, revolutionaries, riots, stolen money, wronged women, and a giant bale of cotton unfolds, with scenes taking place throughout Harlem—culminating in a hellzapoppin finale on the stage of the Apollo Theater.

          Cotton Comes to Harlem is filled with provocative ideas and vivid performances, so it’s never boring. In fact, some parts might be too vivacious, with actors including Lockhart going way over the top at regular intervals. Conversely, Cambridge and St. Jacques are likeably cool and cynical throughout the piece, while iconic comedian Red Foxx—in one of his few movie roles—is surprisingly restrained. So, even though Cotton Comes to Harlem is bit of a mess, there’s something edifying about seeing what conscientious artists did with the same narrative DNA that, just a short while later, produced the dubious universe of blaxploitation.

          Cambridge and St. Jacques reprised their detective roles two years later in Come Back, Charleston Blue, which was adapted from another of Hines’ novels. This time around, the director was Mark Warren. The sequel is more disciplined than its predecssor, in both good and bad ways. While the stoyline of Come Back, Charleston Blue is a bit easier to track than that of Cotton Comes to Harlem, the second movie doesn’t have quite as much exuberance. That said, Come Back, Charleston Blue offers a faint echo of the charms that made Cotton Come to Harlem interesting, namely the offbeat fusion of comedy and drama and the loving depictions of black culture. Coffin Ed and Gravedigger, as well as other principal characters, are introduced during a charity ball that climaxes with a nasty murder. Eventually, the detectives learn that someone is playing vigilante by killing local mobsters, using straight razors to slit the throats of criminals plaguing Harlem neighborhoods. Clues suggest the culprit might by a fellow nicknamed Charleston Blue, who waged a similar war on crime years earlier but has long been thought dead.

          As Coffin Ed and Gravedigger search for the real identity of the avenger, they get into hassles with their superiror officer, Captain Bryce (Percey Rodrigues), and they dig around the activities of a photographer/activist named Joe (Peter De Anda). Along the way, the detectives get demoted to beat cops, employ various silly disguises, and survive lots of slapstick antics. Like the previous movie, Come Back, Charleston Blue is unweildly in terms of tone, bouncing between cartoonish comedy and extreme violence, but some of the elements work well, such as a running joke about a precocious street kid. Oddly, the leading actors are underused, since the filmmakers get disracted by nonsense. (What’s with the homage to The Public Enemy, the 1931 gangster classic with James Cagney?) This results in episodic pacing that makes Come Back, Charleston Blue feel overlong and sluggish.

          Perhaps that’s why Coffin Ed and Gravedigger didn’t appear onscreen again until A Rage in Harlem (1991), featuring Sam Pierce and George Wallace in the roles.

Cotton Comes to Harlem: FUNKY

Come Back, Charleston Blue: FUNKY