1980 Week: Tribute

          Calling a dramatic theater production a “well-made play” carries derogatory implications, not just because the “well-made play” was a popular genre in the 19th century, but because the term implies a certain mixture of predictability, superficiality, and tidiness—nothing earns so much critical enmity as work designed to please everyone. Tribute, based upon Bernard Slade’s stage production of the same name, is very much a “well-made play” in the pejorative sense. Predictable, superficial, tidy? Guilty on all three counts. It’s hardly a coincidence that Slade found great success in the world of TV sitcoms, developing the ridiculous ’60s series The Flying Nun, in addition to writing such plays as Same Time, Next Year, which became the 1978 film of the same name starring Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn. Slade’s signature move as a writer is heading partway down the road toward some emotional place that’s potentially hurtful or meaningful, then tacking sideways with an evasive joke or a simplistic homily.

          Nowhere is this more evident than during Tribute, which plays onscreen as a 121-minute prelude to a cop-out. If the movie didn’t immediately reveal itself as an exercise in jokey sentimentality, it would be a highly frustrating experience. So why is Tribute watchable? The answer is Jack Lemmon, who received a Tony nomination for the stage version and an Oscar nomination for the screen version. He’s wonderful in Tribute, and the match between his character and his screen persona is nearly perfect. Lemmon was uniquely gifted at wriggling out of uncomfortable emotional places by making silly expressions and telling motor-mouthed jokes, so watching him play a man who avoids emotion through humor is satisfying on myriad levels.

          Set in New York, the movie tells the story of Scottie Templeton (Lemmon), a onetime screenwriter now working as a press agent. Beloved by everyone he knows because he’s always quick with a joke and always capable of transforming life into a lighthearted adventure, Scottie has grown estranged from his college-aged son, Jud (Robby Benson), even though Scottie remains friendly with Jud’s mother. She’s Scottie’s ex-wife, Maggie (Lee Remick). Shortly before Maggie delivers Jud to New York for an extended visit, Scottie learns he has a terminal blood disease. Scottie endeavors to fix his relationship with Jud while he still has time, though of course he hopes to shield Jud from the truth lest Jud indulge Scottie out of pity. The complication, of course, is that Scottie doesn’t know the first thing about building real emotional bonds, so his idea of connecting with Jud is arranging for Jud to “meet” pretty young Sally (Kim Cattrall), a recent acquaintance of Scottie’s. The story’s title relates to a grand gesture that one of the characters makes in the final act.

          Directed with pace and polish by Bob Clark, Tribute benefits from fine supporting performances. Cattrall is endearing and Remick is elegant, while Colleen Dewhurst (as Scottie’s doctor) and John Marley (as Scottie’s business partner) add gravitas. Benson does what he can with an underdeveloped role, since his purpose is largely to reflect Lemmon’s light. Ah, but how bright that light is, with Lemmon swerving effortlessly from levity to pathos while stopping at various anguished and confused places in between. He’s reason enough to watch Tribute.

Tribute: GROOVY

Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things (1972)

The first horror movie directed by unpredictable filmmaker Bob Clark—whose body of work includes A Christmas Story (1983), Porky’s (1981), and several gruesome fright flicks—Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things is a schlocky enterprise redeemed by its sense of humor. In fact, the picture is a full-on comedy/horror hybrid, with the satirical aspects of the story connecting more strongly than the would-be scares. Set on a tiny island off the Miami coast, the movie is about an eccentric theater director who brings his company along while performing a black mass. Things get out of hand when the ceremony actually works, so the actors and designers who thought they were out for an evening of kinky thrills find themselves running from bloodthirsty zombies. The story, credited to Clark and leading man Alan Ormsby, is forgettable. However, the execution is enjoyably whimsical, at least with regard to dialogue. Ormsby, who went on to pen scripts for several fine movies (including the 1980 feel-good hit My Bodyguard and the sexy 1982 remake of Cat People), has special fun contriving lines for his own character, using absurdly elevated patterns of polysyllables to ensure that the theater director comes across as a pompous ass. Interestingly, Ormsby also received credit for doing the picture’s special-effects makeup, so his immersion in all things macabre permeates the project. To be clear, Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things is a film of meager pleasures, and there’s no overlooking the shoddiness of the production values. Photographed entirely at night, the movie has a garish look because bright lamps were used to illuminate shadowy locations, and, generally speaking, the lights were hung without much artistry. The sound is poor, as well, with many scenes obviously looped to compensate for inadequate location recording. The acting is amateurish but lively, and Ormsby’s makeup effects for the undead creatures runs to the campy side of the spectrum. Worse, the movie grows tedious once the zombie attack begins. Nonetheless, there’s a certain acidic wit to the piece, and the filmmakers clearly have no illusions of generating high art. Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things may also include cinema’s only black mass riddled with Borscht Belt one-liners.

Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things: FUNKY

Murder by Decree (1979)

          Presumably inspired by the success of The Seven-Per-Cent Solution, a 1974 novel by Nicholas Meyer about Sherlock Holmes teaming up with Sigmund Freud—and by the favorable reception for the terrific 1976 movie adaptation of Meyer’s book—this ambitious mystery film pits Holmes against a real-life murderer, Jack the Ripper. That’s where things get a little complicated. First off, Meyer was not involved with Murder by Decree, but he made a wholly separate 1979 movie about Jack the Ripper called Time After Time. Furthermore, Murder by Decree is based on two separate books. They are Murder by Decree, a 1975 tome that Elwyn Jones and John Lloyd adapted from their own 1973 BBC miniseries Jack the Ripper, and Jack the Ripper: The Final Solution, a 1976 book by Stephen Knight. Oh, and neither of those books features Sherlock Holmes. Confused? Me, too. Moving on!

          Murder by Decree is predicated on two gimmicks. First is the novelty of pairing Holmes with a real-life mystery, and second is the conspiracy theory detailed in the books upon which the film is based. Without giving away anything that isn’t hinted at by the title, the theory holds that Jack the Ripper was a member of the British aristocracy who had official sanction for his horrific crimes. Murder by Decree has many fans—deservedly so, since it’s a consistently intelligent and sophisticated film—though one wishes the producers had demonstrated more confidence in the source material, since the Holmes contrivance makes the whole picture feel a bit fluffy. After all, it’s hard to buy into a conspiracy theory when it’s presented in tandem with one of world literature’s most famous fictional characters. In other words, the story can only be so persuasive since it contains a made-up protagonist. Anyway, notwithstanding the credibility gap (and an overlong running time), Murder by Decree is solid entertainment for grown-ups.

          The cast is terrific, with an urbane Christopher Plummer playing Holmes opposite a snide James Mason as Dr. Watson. Supporting players include Frank Finlay and David Hemmings as policemen, plus John Gielgud as the British PM. (Geneviève Bujold and Donald Sutherland also appear.) Orchestrating the whole film is eclectic director Bob Clark, who at this point in his career had just escaped the ghetto of low-budget horror pictures; appropriately, he cloaks Murder by Degree with enough shadows and smoke to fuel a dozen frightfests. The movie comprises lots of skulking about in dark places, as well as interrogating suspects in ornate rooms, so the contrast between posh and seedy locations serves the story well. Still, it’s all a bit long-winded, and Plummer’s quite chilly, making it difficult to invest much emotion while watching the picture. Accordingly, how much you dig Murder by Decree will depend on how intriguing you find the central mystery—and how satisfying you find the ending, which might tie things up a bit too neatly for some tastes.

Murder by Decree: GROOVY

Deathdream (1974)

          Offering a supernatural spin on the Vietnam-vet genre, Deathdream—sometimes known by its original title, Dead of Night—is one of three grungy ’70s horror flicks directed by Bob Clark, who, improbably, is best known for the sweet family film A Christmas Story (1983). Disturbing, focused, and grim, the movie begins with soldier Andy Brooks (Richard Backus) dying on the battlefield. The movie then shifts to the American heartland, where Andy’s parents, Charles (John Marley) and Christine (Lynn Carlin) reel upon hearing about their boy’s demise. Just hours after receiving the bad news, however, Charles and Christine get an even bigger shock when Andy shows up their door, seemingly very much alive. Yet it soon becomes clear that the young man who’s come home from Vietnam isn’t the same sweet kid the Brooks family remembered—Andy is stoic and withdrawn, his erratic behavior hinting at the potential for violence.

          Meanwhile, a trail of bodies leads police to the Brooks home. It turns out that Andy has become some sort of vampire/zombie, subsisting on the blood of his victims in order to continue his bizarre half-life. And while much of Deathdream comprises standard horror-flick rhythms—a killing every 10 minutes or so, interspersed with scenes of characters slowly realizing who’s responsible—what makes the picture interesting is a thread of sad domestic drama. Andy’s parents squabble over their son’s inexplicable behavior, with Charles demanding that Andy stop moping and Christine making excuses. Later on, when it becomes inescapable that Andy is responsible for monstrous deeds, Charles succumbs to grief and Christine goes mad.

          Adding another wrinkle is the implication that Andy doesn’t really want to be “alive,” and that he’s trying to escape the curse with which he’s been burdened. The idea that he merely wants his existence to end, and yet can’t stop himself from feeding on the living, gives Deathdream an unusual vibe blending the plaintive with the surreal. Thus, at the risk of giving the picture too much credit, since it’s merely a solid shocker, Deathdream ends up providing a potent metaphor for the experience of the returning soldier—Andy thought he’d been released from his troubles by death, but instead he brings war-zone traumas back to his hometown. Thanks to such nuances, Deathdream offers a surprising emotional punch in addition to its various grisly murders and unnerving suspense scenes.

Deathdream: GROOVY

Breaking Point (1976)

Yet another in the endless stream of vigilante flicks that spewed forth after the success of Straw Dogs (1971) and Death Wish (1974), this Canadian actioner starring long-forgotten ’70s leading man Bo Svenson falls short in terms of characterization, drama, logic, and thrills. The last exploitation flick that eclectic director Bob Clark made before going mainstream with 1979’s Murder by Decree, the picture is competent to the point of utter homogenization, as if an editor threw pieces of similar films up in the air and then assembled the pieces in more or less the right order to create a Frankenstein hodgepodge of a vigilante movie. In other words, everything in Breaking Point was done better elsewhere. As is the norm in the genre, a decent man gets on the wrong side of bad people, then takes all he can take until he reaches his—well, it’s all in the title, isn’t it? Michael McBain (Svenson) is an unassuming judo instructor (convenient!) who witnesses a mob-related crime, then enters witness protection under the care of cop Frank Sirrianni (Robert Culp) while preparing to testify against the soldiers of crime boss Vincent Karbone (John Colicos). Predictably, Karbone’s people reach McBain where he’s most vulnerable, by violently harassing the people he loves, so soon enough McBain has to unleash some of his judo whup-ass on the villains. Lacking the psychological complexity of Straw Dogs and the relentless intensity of Death Wish—or even the go-for-broke excess of a self-respecting exploitation picture—this film offers all of the shortcomings of the vigilante genre and none of the cathartic jolts. Clark’s direction is indifferent, as if he had already left the grindhouse in spirit, and Svenson is believably tough but in every other regard forgettable. Thus, the only reason to watch Breaking Point is to discover how long it takes for you to reach your napping point.

Breaking Point: SQUARE

Black Christmas (1974)

          Somewhat interesting as a footnote in the history of horror films because it bridges the suspenseful storytelling of Hitchcock thrillers and the gruesome excesses of slasher flicks, Black Christmas is a low-budget Canadian flick about a psychopath stalking the residents of a sorority house. Oddly, however, the film isn’t as lurid as the premise might suggest, because there’s very little gore and almost zero sexual content; instead, director Bob Clark focuses on colorful character details. Clark, whose strange career included everything from the juvenile T&A of Porky’s (1982) to the nostalgic sweetness of A Christmas Story (1983), demonstrates his ability to let actors form distinctive characters, but also displays his inability to maintain consistent tone. The movie begins with a POV shot of a heavy-breathing nutjob slipping into the attic of the sorority house, then trudges through lengthy soap-opera scenes involving the residents, interspersed with gruesome murder vignettes in which the killer exits the attic to kill the girls one at a time. The killer also places obscene phone calls to the house, most of which are answered by supposedly sophisticated coed Jess (Olivia Hussey).
          The story is predicated on everyone overlooking the obvious, so while the idea of a killer hiding several floors above his victims is creepy, the conceit strains credibility to a ridiculous degree. Furthermore, the premise strangles suspense: Since the “big secret” is revealed in the first scene, all viewers can do is wait for characters to stop being stupid, which they never do. Still, interesting things happen along the way. Hussey, the classically pretty female lead of Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet (1968), is stiff and unconvincing, so Margot Kidder steals the show as a drunk, foul-mouthed coed named Barb, displaying the sexy vivacity that later won her the role of Lois Lane in Superman (1978). B-movie stalwart John Saxon lends solid comic and dramatic support as a cop investigating the strange goings-on at the sorority house, and Marian Waldman scores cheap laughs with a Shelley Winters-type performance as the sorority’s lush housemother.
          Black Christmas isn’t scary, but it goes to unexpected places and it conjures genuine menace whenever Clark employs long traveling shots exploring spaces where horrible things are about to happen. As for the Christmas angle, that’s a minor element of the story hyped for marketing purposes; other than carolers, decorations, and snow, the holiday setting doesn’t have any significance.

Black Christmas: FUNKY