The Disappearance of Aimee (1976)

          The controversial life of 1920s evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson has been fictionalized many times, but, to date, no one has attempted a proper biopic. By default, that means the made-for-TV mystery The Disappearance of Aimee is the most significant movie about one of the Jazz Age’s most fascinating characters. Focusing on a scandalous trial during which McPherson was accused of faking her own kidnapping, the movie boasts two impressive stars: Big-screen actress Faye Dunaway plays McPherson, and Hollywood legend Bette Davis plays her mother. It’s not hard to guess what lured Dunaway to the role, because it’s a showy part full of contradictions, and the centerpiece of the film is an epic-length monologue. Dunaway’s beauty, charisma, and intensity serve the picture well, giving the screen version of McPherson magnetism akin to the messianic power the real McPherson held over her millions of followers. However, John McGreevey’s script lacks a strong point of view. Although the picture subtly implies that public skepticism about McPherson’s kidnapping story was justified, The Disappearance of Aimee never makes an argument for one reading of history versus another. Accordingly, the movie feels unsatisfying despite having been made with a fair degree of intelligence and skill.

          The real facts underpinning the story are as follows—in 1926, McPherson disappeared while swimming in the Pacific near Venice, California. Her mother proclaimed McPherson dead to the evangelist’s megachurch throng and to McPherson’s myriad radio listeners, but some refused to accept the loss. Reports of sightings poured in, and two people drowned while searching for her remains. Then McPherson’s mother received a ransom demand from kidnappers, followed, some time later, by a surprise call from McPherson herself. The evangelist claimed she escaped from her kidnappers, wandered alone in the desert, and found her way to a hospital. Los Angeles authorities later sued McPherson, alleging she violated public morals by fabricating the kidnapping story to cover up an affair with a married man. The combination of a lack of evidence and McPherson’s impassioned direct address to the jury complicated the court proceedings.

          While The Disappearance of Aimee deals with all of this material, too many interesting scenes are played off-camera. (Presumably the filmmakers thought that showing McPherson’s kidnapping would legitimize her version of events.) From sermon scenes to trial scenes, The Disappearance of Aimee is all talk, talk, talk, culminating in the aforementioned monologue—a 10-minute speech during which McPherson lays out the particulars of her abduction. Alas, there’s a world of difference between Dunaway’s monologues here and her long speeches in the same year’s theatrical feature Network. (McGreevey is no Paddy Chayefsky.) Still, The Disappearance of Aimee is interesting, and some elements—including James Woods’ performance as a snarky investigator—add sharp edges.

The Disappearance of Aimee: FUNKY

1980 Week: The Watcher in the Woods

          Elegantly made but too gentle to work as the supernatural horror show promised by its marketing materials, The Watcher in the Woods was one of many boundary-pushing pictures made by Walt Disney Productions during the experimental period that preceded the introduction of sister studios Hollywood and Touchstone. The folks at Disney were still feeling their way around the terrain of stories suited for grown-ups as well as children, so The Watcher in the Woods represents an admirable but half-hearted effort. It’s not in the least bit cute, and in fact the storyline is quite grim, but the climax feels neutered, leaving the impression that another studio might have made bolder choices with the same material.
          The picture beings with an average family seeking to rent the mansion of an English estate. The estate’s owner, aging widow Mrs. Aylwood (Bette Davis), resides in a cottage adjoining the mansion. She’s a mysterious lady who remains haunted by the loss, many years ago, of her beloved daughter. When Mrs. Aylwood spots Jan (Lynn Holly Johnson), the family’s oldest child, Mrs. Aylwood welcomes Jan’s clan to her estate and keeps a close eye on Jan. So does a supernatural figure residing in the woods surrounding the mansion, which Jan identifies as the ghost of Mrs. Aylwood’s daughter. Jan investigates the story of how Mrs. Aylwood’s daughter disappeared, eventually learning that the young woman participated in a strange ritual with several friends, only to be snatched into another dimension. Can Jan help the displaced young woman return to her despondent mother?

          Based on a novel by Florence Engel Randall, The Watcher in the Woods is constructed well enough, and Alan Hume’s photography is atmospheric. Similarly, Stanley Meyers’ understated score lends the desired level of eeriness. However, The Watcher in the Woods fails to impress on several important levels. The central mystery is solved rather easily, the fright scenes lack real bite, and leading lady Johnson (of Ice Castles fame) is terrible. Her flat Midwestern speech pattern renders each line of dialogue inert, and her catalog of facial expressions ranges from confused to uneasy, with little variance in between.
          Had the filmmakers utilized the capable supporting cast more effectively, Johnson’s shortcomings wouldn’t have been as prominent, but Davis has precious few scenes while costars Carroll Baker and David McCallum phone in their miniscule roles. (The British actors playing superstitious locals merely play to type, albeit quite professionally.) Once The Watcher in the Woods reaches its effects-laden finale, the hoped-for suspense has been supplanted by tedium. Nonetheless, it’s likely that some young viewers in 1980 were fascinated by this cinematic creepshow, and it’s fair to say that time has not completely diminished the picture’s modest charms.

The Watcher in the Woods: FUNKY

Death on the Nile (1978)

          The all-star period mystery film Murder on the Orient Express (1974) was such a commercial and critical success that another big-budget Agatha Christie adaptation was sure to follow. And while Death on the Nile is far less posh than its predecessor, it’s still quite enjoyable—more so, perhaps, than the stolid Orient Express. Clever and intricate though they may be, Christine’s books are not high art, and the makers of Death on the Nile treat the source material as pulp, whereas director Sidney Lumet and his Orient Express collaborators took the dubious path of treating Christie as literature. In any event, Death on the Nile plays out like a quasi-sequel to the earlier film, since both pictures feature Christie’s beloved Belgian detective Hercule Poirot. Albert Finney played Poirot in Orient Express, but Peter Ustinov assumes the role in Death on the Nile, marking the first of six films in which he essayed the character.

          As per the usual Christie formula, the narrative follows a large number of interconnected characters, all of whom eventually land in the same place—a steamer churning down the Nile River in Egypt—for a long voyage filled with intrigue and murder. The picture begins in England, where penniless Jacqueline (Mia Farrow) begs her rich friend, Linnet (Lois Chiles), to provide employment for Jacqueline’s fiancée, Simon (Simon MacCorkindale). Linnet steals Simon from her friend, marries him, and embarks on a honeymoon trip through Egypt. Yet Jacqueline chases after them, taunting the newlyweds with threats of revenge. Eventually, Linnet and Simon encounter the vacationing Poirot, requesting his assistance in dispatching the nettlesome Jacqueline. Various other characters enter the mix, and before long it becomes clear that everyone except Simon and the neutral Poirit has a grudge against Linnet.

          It’s giving nothing away to say that she dies about an hour into the 140-minute film—after all, the story can’t be called Death on the Nile without a corpse—so the fun stems from Poirot’s ensuing investigation. The pithy detective performs a thorough review of all the possible suspects, even as more people are killed, finally unraveling the true killer’s identity during a Christie staple—the final scene of Poirot gathering all the suspects in a room and then explaining, with the help of elaborate flashbacks, how he connected clues. It’s all quite far-fetched and formulaic, but there’s a good reason why Christie is considered the queen of the whodunit genre. It also helps that Anthony Shaffer, the playwright/screenwriter behind the intricate mystery film Sleuth (1972), did the script, and that director John Guillermin provides a brisk pace and a sleek look.

          As for the performances from the huge cast, they’re erratic. On the plus side, Ustinov is droll as Poirot, David Niven is urbane as his sidekick, and the best supporting players (Jane Birkin, Jon Finch, Olivia Hussey, I.S. Johar, Maggie Smith) provide the varied textures asked of them. However, some players are badly miscast (Jack Warden as a German?), and some deliver performances that are too clumsy for this sort of material (Chiles, Farrow, George Kennedy). That leaves Bette Davis and Angela Lansbury, both of whom treat their parts like high camp; neither tethers her characterization to human reality, but both fill the screen with palpable energy.

          By the end of the picture, one does feel the absence of Lumet’s sure hand, since he did a smoother job of unifying his Orient Express cast members than Guillermin does here. Nonetheless, in the most important respects, Death on the Nile delivers Christie as pure silly escapism, which seems about right.

Death on the Nile: GROOVY

Burnt Offerings (1976)

          Note: When I posted my original review of Burnt Offerings two years ago, a handful of readers complained that I hadn’t given the movie a fair appraisal, so I made a mental note to revisit the film after some time had passed. Now, I’m happy to report that I enjoyed Burnt Offerings a lot more on second viewing—hence the following.

          Despite scoring on the small screen as the creator of the vampire soap opera Dark Shadows (1966-1971) and as the director of a number of creepy TV movies, filmmaker Dan Curtis wasn’t able to achieve big-screen success. In fact, he directed only one significant theatrical feature, the haunted-house thriller Burnt Offerings, which is long on atmosphere and short on gore. The movie’s biggest “special effects” are the quietly creepy score by Bud Cobert and the twitchy leading performances by Karen Black and Oliver Reed. One could easily pick apart the logic of the storyline, which Curtis and co-screenwriter William F. Nolan adapted from a novel by Robert Morasco, but horror shares with the comedy genre a simple litmus test—whatever works, works. And since Burnt Offerings builds nicely from a disquieting opening sequence to a nasty finale, the movie basically works, in the sense of giving viewers a solid case of the heebie-jeebies.

          When the story begins, psychologically scarred academic Ben Rolf (Oliver Reed) and his kindhearted wife, Marian (Karen Black), move into a California vacation home accompanied by their young son (Lee Montgomery) and their dotty old aunt (Bette Davis). The house’s owners, eccentric siblings Arnold Allardyce (Burgess Meredith) and Roz Allardyce (Eileen Heckart), instruct the Rolfs to deliver meals on a daily basis to the Allardyces’ elderly mother, who lives in an upstairs room but never sets foot anywhere else. Foolishly accepting an offer that’s too good to be true (the rental price of the house is outrageously low), the Rolfs soon get caught in the building’s otherworldly spell. While Marian becomes obsessed with looking after the house and the never-seen Mother Allardyce, Ben starts to experience inexplicable homicidal compulsions, as well as eerie flashbacks to his mother’s funeral.

          Although Curtis and his cohorts eventually provide a tidy explanation for the supernatural nature of the house’s power over its occupants, many aspects of the story are left intentionally mysterious, and that might be the film’s strongest element. For instance, recurring images of an enigmatic chauffeur (Anthony James) linger not only because the cadaverous and perpetually grinning chauffeur is so creepy-looking, but because the chauffeur represents an entire secret realm of unknowable malevolence.
          The biggest challenge when watching Burnt Offerings is accepting how quickly the house gets its hooks into the Rolfs—the usual “why don’t they just leave?” syndrome. (See: The Amityville Horror, etc.) That’s where Curtis’ long record of setting a spooky mood comes into play, because for those willing to join Curtis’ leisurely trek into the shadows, Burnt Offerings has a seductive quality. Black is aptly cast, thanks to the way her close-set eyes make her seem a little bit off right from the beginning, and Reed essays his underwritten role with gravitas and menace. Davis expresses suffering well, and the tag team of Eckhart and Meredith provide a wealth of weirdness in their single scene. Ultimately, Burnt Offerings may be too predictable and slow-moving to qualify as one of the decade’s best fright flicks, but it’s a fun exercise in style—and it comes close to doing for outdoor swimming pools what Jaws did for the Atlantic Ocean.

Burnt Offerings: GROOVY

Bunny O’Hare (1971)

          The fine folks at Wikipedia report that Bette Davis sued the producers of this offbeat comedy because editing changes transformed what Davis had been promised would be grown-up satire into silly slapstick. And while it’s heartening to see that Davis was still her usual combative self even well into the twilight of her career, the question underlying this factoid is why Davis—or anyone, for that matter—could ever have envisioned Bunny O’Hare as grown-up fare, satirical or otherwise. A juvenile predicated on coincidence and contrivance, the film is marred by pervasively nonsensical plotting. The opening scene tells the tale. Bunny O’Hare (Davis) is a dippy widow who flies into a panic when workers show up to demolish her home after she’s defaulted on bank payments. She inexplicably asks a workman named Bill (Ernest Borgnine) to protect her house even though he’s just there to salvage plumbing items for resale. Then Bunny phones her adult children for help, but the kids are too self-involved to recognize that Mom’s in a jam. Next, after Bill fails to protect Bunny’s house (which wasn’t his responsibility in the first place), he succumbs to guilt and offers Bunny a ride. Huh? A series of unlikely situations ensues, during which Bunny discovers that Bill is actually a bank robber wanted by the police, so Bunny blackmails Bill into helping her rob the financial institution that she feels treated her shabbily.

          Bunny O’Hare is a deeply confused movie. For instance, the filmmakers can’t decide if Bunny is competent or helpless. Nor can they decide if the antagonist is a bank, the cops, or Bunny’s children. Yet the myriad story problems aren’t the worst aspects of this dreadful movie. The central visual gimmick involves Borgnine and Davis masquerading as hippies, so viewers are subjected to the surreal sight of bearish Borgnine and tiny Davis decked out in Day-Glo polyester while they hurtle down city streets on a motorcycle. Proving that Davis was at least correct to complain about the film’s editing, the flick is cut and scored with the frenetic, broad-as-a-barn storytelling style of a Jerry Lewis movie. Plus, many getaway scenes feature out-of-place banjo music, as if the picture aspires to be a cousin to Bonnie and Clyde (1967). Davis strives to retain her dignity and plays certain scenes well, but her crisp line deliveries clash badly with Borgnine’s boisterous energy. Costar Jack Cassidy, as the vain cop obsessed with catching the “hippie bandits,” delivers a tiresome caricature in lieu of a performance, while funnyman John Astin, playing one of Bunny’s kids, fares slightly better.

Bunny O’Hare: LAME

Escape to Witch Mountain (1975) & Return from Witch Mountain (1978)

          In the years between Walt Disney’s death in 1966 and the mid-’80s ascension of the storied Eisner/Katzenberg regime at the Walt Disney Company, the iconic studio’s live-action offerings drifted further and further away from the standard cutesy wholesomeness of Uncle Walt’s day. One of the strangest examples is Escape to Witch Mountain, a sci-fi adventure about super-powered orphans following a mysterious instinct to seek out a remote location—while also trying to evade the conniving corporate tycoon who wants to exploit their abilities. Even though the story is told in the standard spoon-fed Disney manner, the plot is so inherently cryptic and fraught with danger that Escape to Witch Mountain is as much of a thriller as it is a fantasy, and the revelation at the climax of the story (though wholly predictable) is an offbeat twist on the customary Disney happy ending. The movie isn’t especially exciting, but it’s brisk and distracting in a comic-book sort of way, and it almost completely avoids the cloying clichés of cute-kid movies because the young characters at the center of the movie are so strange.
          Among the strong grown-up supporting cast, Ray Milland and Donald Pleasence bring their considerable skills to bear as the creepy villains, while Eddie Albert is rock-solid in a thankless role as the kids’ accidental guardian, summoning credible disbelief as he slowly unravels the mystery of the kids’ origin. Starring as the children are ubiquitous ’70s TV players Ike Eisenmann and Kim Richards, both of whom adequately portray anxiety and disorientation while demonstrating bizarre abilities like telekinesis and telepathy; the faraway looks in their eyes sell their characterizations in a way their limited acting abilities cannot. The FX are strictly old-school, which gives the movie a quaint charm except in the rickety climax, when crappy process shots become distracting, but the novelty of the whole enterprise makes Escape to Witch Mountain watchable throughout.
          The sequel Return from Witch Mountain isn’t anywhere near as interesting. In the perfunctory storyline, Eisenmann’s and Richards’ characters return from the seclusion they entered at the end of the first picture for a vacation in L.A., where they’re discovered by crooks who try to exploit them. Despite the presence of impressive actors—the main crooks are played by Bette Davis and Christopher Lee, both looking bored as they deliver pedestrian dialogue—Return gets bogged down in overproduced slapstick, a drab subplot about Richards getting adopted by the nicest street gang in existence, a trite contrivance in which Eisenmann is turned into an automaton, and a generally overlong running time. However, it’s fun to see character players like Anthony James (Vanishing Point) and Jack Soo (Barney Miller) in major roles, and the climactic showdown between Richards and the mind-controlled Eisenman has some edge—too little, too late, though. In the where-are-they-now department, Richards returned to pop-culture prominence in 2009, when she and Eisenmann did cameos in the franchise reboot Race to Witch Mountain, and in 2010, when she joined the cast of the odious reality series The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Escape to Witch Mountain: FUNKY

Return from Witch Mountain: LAME