Lost in the Stars (1974)

          An awkward adaptation of Cry the Beloved Country, Alan Paton’s enduring 1948 novel about South African racial divisions, this production by the American Film Theatre boasts a heartfelt leading performance by the great Brock Peters, as well as strong supporting work by Clifton Davis and Melba Moore. Alas, their performances exist on a plane far above the rest of the movie. Rather than being a straight dramatic rendering of Cry the Beloved Country, this is a filmed version of Lost in the Stars, the 1949 stage musical that Maxwell Anderson and Kurt Weill based upon Paton’s novel. Beyond the problem of how poorly the musical’s songs have aged, the film is neither a “realistic” musical (with scenarios wherein people would believably sing) nor a sung-through musical. It’s a queasy hybrid, tacking back and forth between dance numbers, straight dramatic scenes, and vocal interludes. Many of the bits work individually, but they don’t cohere.

          Peters stars as Rev. Stephen Kumalo, who leaves his remote village by train and travels to Johannesburg in order to find missing relatives, including his adult son. After reuniting with his brother, John (Raymond St. Jacques), Stephen assumes responsibility for a young relative, Alex (H.B. Barnum III), and the priest also learns that his son, Absalom (Davis), has been in and out of trouble with the law. The story then shifts to Absalom’s perspective. We learn that he’s desperately poor, living in squalor with Irina (Moore), who is pregnant with his child. Together with two accomplices, Absalom attempts a robbery at the home of a wealthy white man, leading to tragedy and more legal trouble. The point of all these narrative machinations is to make a statement about the unfairness of a system that relegates one group of people to poverty simply because of their skin color, and to demonstrate that black individuals are capable of dignity and grace despite being mistreated.

          Lost in the Stars is exactly as heavy-handed and schematic as it sounds. Furthermore, the songs are overwrought and lumbering; the playfulness that Weill brought to his best melodies is completely absent here because of the grim subject matter, and Anderson’s lyrics are full of anguished speechifying and grandiose religious metaphors. Some of the songs, including the title number, resonate somewhat thanks to context and performance, with Peters’ robust baritone a fine instrument for expressing righteous indignation. That said, the score’s occasional “African” flourishes are as bogus as the Oregon locations that the producers used for filming. Ultimately, Lost in the Stars is worthwhile if only for the platform it gives to actors whose visibility in the ’70s was not commensurate with their talent. Nonetheless, pulling this particular show out of mothballs was an odd choice for the sophisticated folks at the American Film Theatre.

Lost in the Stars: FUNKY

The McMasters (1970)

Despite earning cinematic immortality with his moving performance as a victim of prejudice in To Kill a Mockingbird (1960), Brock Peters didn’t get many opportunities to play leading movie roles. The middling race-relations Western The McMasters is an exception, because even though avuncular thespian Burl Ives has top billing, this is Peters’ movie from start to finish. Set in a small Deep South town just after the Civil War, the picture dramatizes the explosive consequences of a free black man trying to live quietly as a property owner in a heavily racist white community. Benjie (Peters) returns from service in the Union army and reconnects with Neal McMasters (Ives), the white rancher who raised Benjie and regards him as a son. Recognizing that he’s getting older and has no other heirs, Neal gives Benjie his last name and half-ownership of his ranch. This development doesn’t sit well with nasty rednecks including Kolby (Jack Palance), a former Confederate officer, and Russel (L.Q. Jones), a local troublemaker. The racists ensure that Benjie and Neal can’t hire white workers for their ranch. However, Benjie befriends a band of Indians led by White Feather (David Carradine), and the Indians agree to help with chores. White Feather also “gives” his sister, Robin (Nancy Kwan), to Benjie as a concubine. Predictably, Benjie and Robin fall in love, and just as predictably, Robin is raped during a siege on the ranch. All of this leads up to a bloody showdown, though the climax of The McMasters is neither as decisive nor or simplistic as one might expect. And while it would be inaccurate to describe The McMasters as a surprising film, the story has just enough emotional texture to make a casual viewing worthwhile. The acting is generally solid, although Ives delivers rote work and Peters comes on a bit theatrically at times, while Western-cinema veterans including Jones, Palance, and R.G. Armstrong provide standard-issue varmint flavor. The miscast Kwan is appealing, and as for Carradine, his performance as an Indian is a stretch, since his line deliveries sound suspiciously modern, but his unique persona adds vitality. (The actor’s father, John Carradine, shows up for a small role as an idealistic preacher.) One of the only features directed by prolific TV helmer Alf Kjellin, The McMasters is never less than competent in terms of technical execution, and it’s never less than serious about its subject matter.

The McMasters: FUNKY

Two-Minute Warning (1976)

          The premise of Two-Minute Warning couldn’t be more appealing for fans of cheesy ’70s blockbusters: A sniper takes a position in the clock tower of the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum during a crowded football game, so cops led by Captain Peter Holly (Charlton Heston) must take the sniper out. Chuck Heston versus a psycho against a backdrop of tragic melodrama—pass the popcorn! Unfortunately, the title of Two-Minute Warning is itself a warning (to viewers), since virtually nothing exciting happens until the last two minutes of the game that provides the film’s narrative structure. Most of the movie comprises a long slog of “character development” in the superficial disaster-movie style, meaning Two-Minute Warning is nearly all foreplay with very little payoff.

          That said, if you dive into the movie aware that it’s a slow burn, the combination of enterprising location photography and enthusiastic performances might be enough to keep you interested. The main relationship in the movie is between Captain Holly, who spends most of his time watching the sniper through a video feed originating in the Goodyear Blimp (!), and hotshot SWAT team commander Chris Button (John Cassavetes). Holly wants to remove the sniper without gunplay, whereas Button is itching for a shootout. Watching these alpha males clash provides a smidgen of macho entertainment, though one wishes the filmmakers had found a way to make their conflict more dynamic. The lack of strong leading characters lets supporting players run away with the picture. Brock Peters stands out as a Coliseum maintenance man who tries to be a hero, and Beau Bridges has some sorta-affecting moments as an unemployed dad fighting with his wife and kids in the stands, unaware of the danger lurking behind the end zone.

          Two-Minute Warning hews so closely to the disaster-movie paradigm that the story also includes an aging pickpocket (Walter Pidgeon), a football-loving priest (Mitchell Ryan), and a bickering couple (played by David Janssen and Gena Rowlands). Yes, it’s the old “Who’s going to live, who’s going to die?” drill. Director Larry Peerce rounded out the cast with his then-wife, Marilyn Hassett, the star of his maudlin The Other Side of the Mountain movies, although casting his missus appears to be as close as he got to emotionally investing in this trifling potboiler. Since the Coliseum figured prominently in ’70s pop culture (it was used for Heaven Can Wait, North Dallas Forty, and innumerable TV episodes), the venue provides as comforting a presence as any of the name-brand actors, and Peerce shoots the location well. Overall, however, Two-Minute Warning is a missed opportunity given all the possibilities suggested by the premise. Fumble!

Two-Minute Warning: FUNKY

Framed (1975)

          Drive-in pulp done right, Framed puts Southern-fried star Joe Don Baker into his most comfortable role: a tough-talking everyman pushed to violent extremes by horrific circumstance. Offering a shady spin on Buford Pusser, the lawman Baker played in Walking Tall (1973), this picture casts the actor as Ron Lewis, a gambler who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Driving home from a big game one night, he comes across two cars parked on a country highway, and exits his own vehicle to offer assistance. When an unseen person shoots at him with a gun, Ron dives back into his car and makes tracks. Later that night, a cruel small-town deputy shows up at Ron’s doorstep, ostensibly to make a bust but really to start a fight. Realizing he’s been set up to die, Ron defends himself and kills the deputy. Then, thanks to collusion between various corrupt local officials, Ron’s railroading is made complete when he’s sentenced to a four-year stint in jail. And that’s the just first third of the movie: After all this happens, Ron makes surprising alliances inside the big house before coldly seeking revenge (and the truth) upon his release.

           Briskly written by Mort Briskin and directed with meat-and-potatoes economy by Phil Karlson (both of whom worked with Baker on Walking Tall), Framed delivers the B-movie goods from start to finish. The characterizations are clear and purposeful, the dialogue is pithy and sometimes clever, and the violence is nasty. In particular, the close-quarters fight between Ron and the deputy in Ron’s garage is a bone-crunching brawl with persuasive stunt work and plentiful splatter; it’s hard to watch the scene without flinching. The rest of the movie is just as intense, even though the picture follows a somewhat leisurely pace (106 minutes is lengthy by revenge-flick standards). Baker is a quintessential ’70s lead, a hulking good ol’ boy in a leisure suit cracking wise and kicking ass, so it doesn’t matter that the rest of the cast is largely anonymous. The great Brock Peters shows up for a smallish role as a cop who recognizes Ron’s innocence, and Gabriel Dell is funny as an easygoing hit man who drifts in and out of Ron’s life. Ultimately, it’s all about the crime and the grime, and Framed has those elements in abundance.

Framed: GROOVY

Black Girl (1972)

          One of a handful of features directed by the beloved actor/activist Ossie Davis, Black Girl is a bracing alternative to the portrayals of African-American life that dominated U.S. screens in the early ’70s. Instead of the lurid violence of blaxploitation flicks or the pandering melodrama of message pictures, Black Girl is a straightforward story about a young woman trying to find her way in a world rife with unique expectations and pressures. Adapted by J.E. Franklin from her own play, the story concerns Billie Jean (Peggy Pettit), a black teenager living with a volatile extended family in Los Angeles.

          Life is tough because the household’s matriarch, Rosie (Louise Stubbs), squeaks by on government assistance, rental income from the tenant of a back room, and occasional handouts from her ex-husband, Earl (Brock Peters). Raising children from several different fathers, Rosie also takes in young women like Netta (Leslie Uggams), whose biological mother has mental problems. Further complicating the household is Rosie’s mother, known as Mu’Dear (Claudia McNeil), who fights for dominance within the family.

          Against this fraught backdrop, Billie Jean seeks to define her identity. She dreams of becoming a dancer, but risks her future by quitting high school after a quarrel with a teacher. Therefore, the main storyline of this densely plotted movie concerns a three-way duel between Billie Jean and her bitchy older sisters, Norma (Gloria Edwards) and Ruth Ann (Rhetta Greene). These two fear that Netta has taken prominence in Mama Rosie’s heart because Netta got into college, so Norma and Ruth Ann manipulate the impressionable Billie Jean into ruining Netta’s impending visit. The movie also features a long sequence involving Earl, who loves Rosie but can’t meet her high standards of commitment and responsibility.

          The narrative of Black Girl is wildly overstuffed (all of this material gets crammed into 97 minutes), so the movie’s biggest problem is sprawl. Davis is adept at guiding performances, so individual scenes have impact, but the overall effect is dulled because Black Girl waffles between focusing on Billie Jean’s story and opening up to become an ensemble piece. However, the sincerity of the movie is undeniable. Everyone performs with great commitment, and Davis largely favors relatable interpersonal dynamics over cheap histrionics—notwithstanding the somewhat overwrought climax, Davis’ filmmaking is consistently humane and observational. Thus, his inability to pare down the story to a manageable scale is not the fatal flaw it might have been.

Black Girl: FUNKY