Black Chariot (1971)

           An intriguing artifact from the same Black-power zeitgeist that produced Uptight (1968), Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971), and The Spook Who Sat by the Door (1973), Robert L. Goodwin’s indie drama Black Chariot had a miniscule theatrical run in 1971, then disappeared until its recent rediscovery and restoration. Watching Black Chariot today, it’s evident why the movie failed to get more traction in 1971 because amateurish production values and scattershot scripting obscure the film’s sober meditation on provocative issues. In his first leading role, charismatic athlete-turned-actor Bernie Casey has more presence than skill, and it’s frustrating to realize that a polished version of Black Chariot could have featured an indelible performance by Casey as self-described “street brother” who develops a social conscience. As goes Casey’s portrayal, so goes the film—Black Chariot is full of weighty ideas, but Goodwin lacks the artistry and resources needed to realize his vision.

          Janky production values notwithstanding, the picture gets off to a strong start with a tense meeting between several members of an unnamed Black Power organization. Because the police killing of a group member was triggered by another member spilling secrets to cops, organization leader Plaz (Richard Elkins) calls a vote on whether the traitor should be executed. The only “no” is from Tuck (Casey). After the meeting, Tuck tracks down the turncoat, Brack (Robert L. Goodwin Jr.), to warn the man he’s in danger. Too frightened to listen to reason, Brack shoots his would-be savior. Then a local youth helps the wounded Tuck stagger to the home of Tuck’s devoutly religious mother, Sara (Paulene Myers), and the organization kidnaps a white doctor (Gene Dynarski) to treat their injured friend. Cue flashbacks depicting how Tuck joined the organization. The flashbacks also show his fraught romance with strident organization member Silvia (Barbara O. Jones), and his friendship with Dooley (Michael Warren), the young man whose death started the dramatic wheels spinning.

          There’s so much to admire in Black Chariot that it’s a shame Goodwin didn’t entrust his script to a producer with story sense and a director with visual flair. As executed by Goodwin, Black Chariot lacks important beats and lingers on peripheral moments. In fact, the best-written scene is a tangential conversation between Sara and the doctor while Tuck suffers in the next room. As Sara ponders how her son went astray, the doctor reveals that he loves Black music and supports the NAACP—it’s illuminating to watch these characters talk past each other. Alas, more typical of Black Chariot are confounding decisions that diminish the experience, for instance when the movie drowns a lengthy getting-to-know-you scene featuring Silvia and Tuck in drab music. Aesthetically, the picture is a mixed bag, with some scenes shot on 35mm and others on low-resolution video. Pictorial consistency would have helped.

          Nonetheless, Black Chariot is a valuable record of its moment. When Plaz says, “No brother is more important than the organization,” he advocates groupthink disguised as idealism, and when Tuck seeks mercy for Brack, he expresses the idea that Black-on-Black violence is never the answer. Black Chariot also gets into dilettante activism by revealing that Silvia lives well thanks to the patronage of her wealthy father, and religious hypocrisy when one of Sara’s Bible-study friends slides over to Sara’s apartment because she lusts after Tuck. Anyone whose interest in ’70s urban cinema begins and ends with blaxploitation flicks may find Black Chariot dull, but those genuinely curious about where people’s heads were at circa 1971 will find the experience edifying.

          FYI, Black Chariot is presently on a small theatrical roadshow thanks to Kino Lorber, with playdates throughout July 2026. For information, click HERE.
 
Black Chariot: FUNKY

Every ’70s Book Review: Weirdumentary

          Welcome to what I believe is the first-ever book review on Every ’70s Movie, occasioned by the discovery of a volume dedicated to one of my fave ’70s-cinema subsets. Published last year by Feral House, Weirdumentary: Ancient Aliens, Fallacious Prophecies, and Mysterious Monsters from 1970s Documentaries is author Gary D. Rhodes’s affectionate survey of movies and TV shows centering pseudoscience, shameless projects that present speculation about sensationalistic topics as nonfiction or a close approximation thereof.

          Longtime readers of this blog may recall my fondness for shlockumentaries from Sunn Classics (and various other production companies) about the Bermuda Triangle, Bigfoot, and their ilk. Seemingly all of these projects are catalogued and critiqued in Weirdumentary, a heavily illustrated paperback with, appropriately enough, a big footprint (it’s nearly 8.5 by 11 inches and it sprawls past 300 pages). If you’ve ever longed for a directory explaining the difference between Beyond Belief (1976), World Beyond Death (1976), Journey into the Beyond (1977), and Beyond and Back (1978), then Weirdumentary deserves real estate on your bookshelf.

         A media professor, occasional filmmaker, and PhD, Rhodes fell in love with pseudoscience movies and TV shows as a kid in the ’70s, so Weirdumentary is partly a nostalgia trip, partly a semi-scholarly exercise, and partly a quest to reach the top of an obsessive-compulsive mountain. (It’s not lost on me that the same descriptors could be applied to Every ’70s Movie.) Weirdumentary comprises reviews of movies and TV shows that were, for the most part, dismissed upon their original release as slop pandering to the public’s Me Decade preoccupation with all things paranormal. Outliers such as Oscar winner The Hellstrom Chronicle (1971) gained cultural legitimacy, but more typical of the fad is Aliens from Spaceship Earth (1977), an obscure doc hosted by Scottish singer Donovan. Hence the utility of Rhodes opining why viewers should skip Aliens from Spaceship Earth and check out Mysteries from Beyond Earth (1975) instead. The latter doc was hosted by William Shatner with characteristic vigor, and Shatner’s frequent costar Leonard Nimoy is well-represented in Weirdumentary because of several chapters about the 1976-1982 series In Search Of . . . One of the pleasures of Weirdumentary is discovering how many notable figures from that era hosted pseudoscience programs—not just usual suspects Rod Serling and Orson Welles, but also Robert Conrad, Samantha Eggar, Jack Palance, Omar Sharif, and more.

          Although the book’s scope is more impressive than its style, I’m empathetic to the challenges Rhodes faced while conceiving and researching this book. Firstly, because so many of the projects he covers were created half a century ago as quick cash grabs, tracking down participants and production records would have been a years-long endeavor rife with disappointment and frustration. Secondly, in the spirt of the author’s predilection for goofy puns, Rhodes faced a cross-Rhodes when deciding how to approach the text. Silly or sober? He chose the former, delivering breezy remarks full of asides, jokes, and what can generously be described as wordplay. Snark aside, this was a legitimate conundrum. Had Rhodes strived to create a rigorous film-history document, an academic approach might have clashed with the frivolous nature of his subject matter. Nonetheless, flippancy is a weak foundation for a tome of this size—the deep scholarship of Stephen R. Bissette’s excellent introduction is largely absent from the main text, and whenever Rhodes weaves in background about how a particular project got made, his lighthearted style benefits from the counterweight of solid data.

          At its worst, Weirdumentary is disposable comment-board banality. At its best, Weirdumentary is a blissed-out viewing journal created by a superfan, with enthusiasm compensating for a lack of heft (and for frequent lapses into juvenile prose). Either way, it’s an undemanding book, better suited to occasional perusal than a straight-through read—which might be just the ticket for a casual fan of this only-in-the-’70s genre. Whatever its shortcomings, I’m glad Weirdumentary exists, and it will be a useful guide for future Every ’70s Movie explorations of the psuedoscience realm.

Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas In July (1979)

          Beginning in the mid-1960s, Rankin-Bass Productions generated so many animated holiday specials—including the beloved stop-motion classics Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (1964), Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town (1970), and The Year Without a Santa Claus (1974)—that it’s unsurprising the company developed a feature-length crossover project involving its most popular characters and targeted for theatrical release. Alas, ambition was not accompanied by inspiration, so Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July suffers from an overabundance of weak ideas. In lieu of a solid core, the movie introduces an endless parade of characters and concepts, making it difficult for viewers to know (or care) what the movie is actually about. And because the Rankin-Bass style was already antiquated when the first holiday special was released (once upon a time, the kitsch was charming), this exhausting movie probably struck 1979 audiences as an unwelcome transmission from a bygone era. Viewed from a modern perspective, this thing also anticipates the Marvel Cinematic Universe inasmuch as one of the featured characters, Jack Frost, was introduced in a Rankin-Bass special released the same year as this feature. There’s a sense of Rankin-Bass forcing new brands onto the consumer, much as how Marvel movies always feature come-ons for future Marvel movies.

          Here’s a quick gloss on the plot. An ancient wizard called Winterbolt wakes from a long sleep to discover Santa has replaced him as lord of the North Pole. Winterbolt contrives a plan to undercut Santa’s power (which emanates from his goodness) by tricking Santa’s pal Rudolph into doing something evil. Somehow this leads to Rudolph (and Frosty the Snowman) joining a circus, ostensibly in Florida. Through Winterbolt’s machinations, Rudolph takes the blame when the circus’s bankroll gets stolen, leading to Rudolph falling from grace and (don’t ask why) Frosty and his entire family melting. Enter Jack Frost, Santa, and a magic whale (again, don’t ask why), all of whom save the day. Somehow, there’s room in the mix for the circus owner, voiced by Ethel Merman, to belt a few interminable songs. (Also featured are the golden throats of Red Buttons, Mickey Rooney, and Shelley Winters.)

          Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July is a tough watch because viewers get bludgeoned with recaps of origin stories, lengthy introductions to new characters, myriad subplots, and way too many songs. Whereas the best Rankin-Bass specials rocket through purposeful storylines, Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July slogs through one inconsequential event after another. Oddly, the only scenes that really hold interest involve villains. The design aesthetic for Winterbolt and his world is fantastic, something out of a snowy nightmare—his sled is pulled by a quartet of blue snakes!—and the great Paul Frees voices the character with authority. Yet the most interesting character here is Scratcher, an embittered reindeer with a grudge against Rudolph, who is vocally coded as a bitchy queen and voiced by Alan Sues to evoke Paul Lynde’s signature whine. In some parallel dimension, Scratcher got his own Rankin-Bass special and it was divine. In this dimension, Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July lasted just one week in a single theater before finding its way to television, where it fizzled again.  

Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July: FUNKY