Sweet Kill (1972)

An embarrassing credit for everyone involved, this sleazy killer-thriller emerged from the bowels of Roger Corman’s ’70s operation, representing all the worst qualities of the Corman brand and none of the best—with the exception of giving a promising filmmaker his first crack at directing. Curtis Hanson, who later graduated to sophisticated dramas and thrillers including L.A. Confidential (1997), displays zero flair while helming the sordid saga of Eddie Collins, a twisted gym teacher who gets off on killing pretty young women and, eventually, sexually violating their corpses. In the fine tradition of low-rent shockers that rip off Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), Sweet Kill also introduces a mother fixation, since Eddie’s problems date back to a childhood trauma. In any event, the movie is painfully dull to watch because long stretches of time pass during which nothing happens; worse, even when Hanson unleashes something colorful like the disposal of a body, events unfold in quasi-real time, thereby eliminating momentum and suspense. Plus, naturally, the movie reflects Corman’s tendency to compensate for weak narratives with gratuitious nudity, so nearly every actress who appears in Sweet Kill parades around either topless or fully nude in sequences that are more perfunctory than erotic. (The movie actually climaxes with a sort of greatest-tits montage comprising quick glimpses of all preceding skin scenes.) Adding to the overall awfulness of Sweet Kill—which is occasionally exhibited by the alternate titles The Arousers and A Kiss from Eddie—is the presence of 1950s heartthrob Tab Hunter in the leading role. While his willingness to play against type is admirable, he attacks the part with more gusto than skill, resulting in a flat and somewhat inept characterization.

Sweet Kill: LAME

The Little Dragons (1979)

It should come as no surprise that biker gangs, FBI agents, karate-kicking preteens, love-struck adolescents, psychopathic rednecks, and sparring spouses are incompatible narrative elements. Yet all of those things and more are crammed into Little Dragons, a mess of an action/comedy movie ostensibly designed for family audiences. Perhaps because the picture was an early directorial effort by the skillful Curtis Hanson, who later made winners including The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (1992) and L.A. Confidential (1997), the movie has a fairly slick flow within individual scenes. It’s the way all the parts are assembled that creates problems. Beyond the fundamental issue of cramming way too many concepts into one movie, Little Dragons suffers from tonal confusion of the worst kind. Scenes featuring youngsters doing martial arts are played for Disney-style slapstick amusement, and sequences spotlighting the creepy rednecks are borderline horrific, thanks to constant threats of brutal murder. Adding to the dissonance is a running gag about stoners happily singing “The Hokey Pokey.” For any who care, the broad strokes of the plot are as follows. At a rural campsite, a suburban family (Mom, Dad, teen daughter) encounters a backwoods clan comprising mama Angel (Ann Sothern) and her two depraved sons, middle-aged crazies Carl (John Chandler) and Yancey (Joe Spinell). They take a shine to the suburban family’s daughter and kidnap the young lady at the first opportunity. Meanwhile, a grandfather (Charles Lane) arrives at the same campsite with his grandsons (played by real-life siblings Chris and Pat Peterson), who are into karate. The young martial artists, accompanied by a cadre of classmates, try to rescue the kidnapped girl. It’s all as silly as it is slapdash. Although clearly shot in the late ’70s, it’s iffy whether The Little Dragons properly belongs to the decade, since some sources indicate the film was first released in 1980. (Furthermore, it was re-released a few years later as Karate Kids U.S.A., following the success of the unrelated 1984 sports drama The Karate Kid.) In any event, The Little Dragons is harmless but inept.

The Little Dragons: LAME

The Silent Partner (1978)

          An obscure but diverting thriller produced in Canada with American leading man Elliot Gould and Canadian-born Hollywood star Christopher Plummer, The Silent Partner was written for the screen by Curtis Hanson, who later demonstrated his acumen for the thriller genre by writing and/or directing critical faves including L.A. Confidential (1997). Complex and smart, Hanson’s script—which was based on a novel by Anders Bodelson—boasts not only a nifty set of plot twists but also wry wit and a surprising degree of savagery. In particular, the movie features one of the nastiest screen villains of the ’70s, and Plummer, who plays the baddie, clearly relished an opportunity to skewer the nice-guy image that had haunted him since his appearance in the squeaky-clean blockbuster The Sound of Music (1965).

          Gould, portraying one of his signature put-upon everyman characters, stars as Canadian bank teller Miles Cullen, whose branch gets robbed by a thief named Harry Reikle (Plummer). In a memorable flourish, Harry commits the crime while dressed as Santa Claus. Through circumstances that needn’t be explained here, Harry flees the bank without his stolen cash, which remains in Miles’ possession. However, because the bank believes the money is gone, Miles helps himself to the haul. Emboldened by his unexpected transition to criminality, Miles also becomes involved with a dark-haired femme fatale, played by the smoldering Canadian singer/starlet Céline Lomez. Unluckily for everyone involved, she’s also connected to Harry. Here’s the kicker: When Harry learns that he and Miles are both complicit in criminal activity, the crook manipulates his “silent partner” into participating in further larceny. It gets ugly.

          The plot requires a considerable suspension of disbelief, and some viewers may be turned off by the lack of a tangible moral center—even though Harry is a monster, Miles is at the very least a reckless weasel who endangers everyone around him for petty reasons. Yet the movie remains interesting because of its unexpected rhythms and vivid performances. Sure, Gould did similar work in many other films, but Plummer dives wholeheartedly into portraying a sociopath, and Lomez more than delivers the requisite measure of sexual heat. (Poor Susanna York, as was so often the case, wilts in a bland supporting role, though her elegant presence offers a small complement to the craven behavior surrounding her character.) Director Daryl Duke, whose career mostly comprises melodramatic TV projects including the ’80s miniseries The Thorn Birds, serves the edgy material well, guiding actors toward uninhibited work much as he did with the acidic music-industry drama Payday (1972). So, while The Silent Partner might not hold up to close scrutiny, it’s strikingly intense and mean-spirited.

The Silent Partner: GROOVY