McCloud (1970)

          While not a direct continuation of the Clint Eastwood movie Coogan’s Bluff (1968), popular TV detective series McCloud was inspired by that film, hence Herman Miller’s credits as screenwriter of the Eastwood picture and creator of the TV series. Both projects employ the novel image of a cowboy cop transplanted to New York City, solving crimes with frontier toughness, old-fashioned common sense, and a warm charm that drives cosmopolitan women wild. Right from this first episode, which is sometimes known by the titles “Portrait of a Dead Girl” and “Who Killed Miss U.S.A.?,” star Dennis Weaver cuts a striking image, his tall frame swathed in a sheepskin coat and capped by a cowboy hat. Yet Marshal Sam McCloud of Taos, New Mexico, is not portrayed as a bumpkin. Quite to the contrary, he’s a tireless investigator whose courtly manners disguise an agile mind.
          The notion is that because he’s free of big-city hangups and pretentions, he sees things more clearly than his metropolitan counterparts, spotting holes in theories, logic problems in alibis, and omissions from crime reports. It’s worth nothing that he’s also smooth with the ladies, because one of this pilot film’s most enjoyable scenes is an exchange of erotic banter between Weaver and leading lady Diana Muldaur.
          Nonetheless, despite being cowritten by the reliable team of Richard Levinson and William Link, the first McCloud mystery isn’t especially memorable beyond the effective introduction of the protagonist. After capturing a fugitive in New Mexico, McCloud escorts his prisoner to New York, where the man is set to testify in a high-profile murder case. Criminals posing as cops kidnap the prisoner, compelling McCloud  to recapture the man and therefore restore his dignity as a lawman. This leads McCloud to explore the facts of the murder case, in which a Latino busboy stands accused of murdering a white beauty queen. Naturally, McCloud discovers problems with evidence incriminating the busboy and makes his way, slowly but surely, toward the identity of the real killer. Accompanying the marshal through his first New York adventure is Chris Coughlin (Muldaur), writer of a best-selling book about the case. At various times, McCloud encounters an activist priest, a jaded fashion model, a morally ambiguous lawyer, and other big-city types who provide stark contrast to the plain-talking protagonist.

          Even though the story underwhelms, the film is quite watchable. The acting is slick (watch forRaul Julia as the priest and Julie Newmar, of all people, as the model), while director Richard A. Colla gives everything an expensive look with blurry foreground objects and fluid camera moves. As for Weaver, he's in the zone from start to finish, channeling an aw-shucks Gary Cooper vibe without ever seeming artificial or cloying. Although McCloud never became a proper weekly series—like Columbo and McMillan and Wife, it aired as a series of telefilms—the franchise captured the public’s imagination, running from 1970 to 1977. Weaver reprised the role for 1989’s The Return of Sam McCloud.

McCloud: FUNKY

Rolling Man (1972)

          At first glance, the made-for-TV drama Rolling Man might seem like little more than an offbeat mediocrity with an interesting-ish cast. Prolific TV-movie guy Dennis Weaver plays a tow-truck driver who loses custody of his kids while serving a prison term for assault, then struggles to find them upon gaining his release. Supporting him are Donna Mills, Agnes Moorehead, Sheree North, Slim Pickens, Don Stroud, and country singer Jimmy Dean. The story is a bit of a mess, because the leading character tends to stumble in and out of episodes, lingering in places when he should be looking for his kids, so there’s not much in the way of forward momentum until the last 20 minutes or so. Yet the exemplary work of a behind-the-scenes player elevates Rolling Man. By dint of airing about two weeks before another 1972 telefilm, Goodnight, My Love, this picture represents the directorial debut of Peter Hyams, who later became a successful feature-film helmer known for action pictures, conspiracy thrillers, and sci-fi sagas. He does terrific work here, not only by imbuing Rolling Man with a naturalistic pictorial style but also by guiding his actors to render lived-in performances. What’s more, the picture has strong rural atmosphere, from the believable dialects of the characters to the gritty look of low-rent locations including racetracks and trailer parks.

          The movie’s unlucky protagonist is Lonnie (Weaver), a simple guy who enjoys working for mechanic Chuck (Pickens) because the lifestyle allows him to avoid heavy responsibilities. But when Lonnie discovers that his wife is two-timing him with racecar driver Harold (Stroud), Lonnie freaks out, chasing the lovers and running them off the road. After the wife dies in the crash, Lonnie beats the tar out of Harold, blaming him for the tragedy. Years later, after leaving jail, Lonnie discovers that his mother (Moorehead) sent his kids to live with a foster family, so Lonnie embarks on a quest to find the two boys, though he’s periodically derailed by dalliances with pretty women. Eventually, circumstances lead to a showdown between Lonnie and his old nemesis Harold. The script never quite clicks, partially because the bond connecting Lonnie to his sons isn’t established well at the beginning. However, nearly every scene in Rolling Man works as a stand-alone piece. Hyams knew what he was doing, as evidenced by the fact that he graduated to big-screen directing after the near-simultaneous release of his first two made-for-TV efforts.

Rolling Man: FUNKY

The Ordeal of Patty Hearst (1979)

           Detailed, lengthy, and somewhat meticulous, this made-for-TV dramatization of heiress Patricia Hearst’s kidnapping and reconditioning by political radicals offers an adequate recitation of an event that ranks among the most notorious episodes in 1970s America. The title is a bit of a misnomer, partially because the protagonist is the FBI agent supervising the search for Hearst, and partially because the filmmakers fail to provide real insight into Heart’s psychological state. This is outside-in storytelling rather than inside-out, so a more accurate title would have been The Search for Patty Hearst. Yes, the picture depicts all the infamous moments, such as Heart’s participation in a bank robbery, but this is not the same as trying to explain Hearst’s experience of Stockholm Syndrome. Moreover, while TV mainstay Dennis Weaver is serviceable in the leading role of the FBI agent, Lisa Eilbacher isn’t given room to explore all of Hearst’s complicated dimensions. The actress is good enough in the most important scenes that one wishes the filmmakers had put her front and center.

           Shot in a slick but unadorned style, with some scenes energized by handheld, verite-style camerawork, The Ordeal of Patty Hearst opens by setting up the circumstances of FBI agent Charles Bates (Weaver). A veteran investigator, he’s facing professional obstacles including the imposition of a new mandatory retirement age and various public outcries for government transparency following the Watergate controversy. When Hearst is kidnapped, he’s under a microscope in every way imaginable. Worse, his investigation is hampered because most leads emanate from the San Francisco counterculture, and the denizens of that realm harbor profound anti-law-enforcement sentiments. Disappointingly, the filmmakers portray Bates as a saint with a badge, so even when his investigation stalls, we’re expected to root for his success. Employing hagiography techniques is not the best way to instill the viewer with confidence in the credibility of storytelling. The scenes with Hearst have more edge. She’s taken at gunpoint from her home, tossed in a lightless closet, tormented with propaganda and psychological seduction, and generally disengaged from her own identity over the course of weeks-long captivity. Eventually, she is rechristened Tania, a soldier in the Symbionese Liberation Army, so it’s Tania, rather than Hearst, who carries a machine gun into the bank robbery alongside SLA comrades.

           Again, seeing this stuff is one thing, but making us feel and think what Hearst did is another, and the higher ambition is beyond this project’s scope. Still, the see-it-now method renders a few vivid sequences, notably the violent standoff between police and an SLA contingent in Watts, and the score by John Rubenstein adds layers of eeriness and tension. Better still, the filmmakers do a fair job of explaining how leads and legwork eventually led FBI agents to Hearst’s final hiding place, and the parallels that are drawn between internal conflicts at the FBI and similar friction within the SLA are interesting. Also worth nothing is the presence in the supporting cast of actors who later achieved fame: indie-cinema sexpot Rosanna Arquette, Breaking Bad/Better Call Saul guy Jonathan Banks, and future horror-cinema fave Robert Englund.

The Ordeal of Patty Hearst: FUNKY

Duel (1971)

          A key moment in the ascent of Steven Spielberg from promising young Hollywood talent to genuine cinematic wunderkind, this arresting TV movie demonstrated Spielberg’s gift for using nimble camerawork and sure-handed pacing to create powerful onscreen excitement. Particularly since Spielberg made something from virtually nothing—the story is thin to the extreme of barely existing—it’s no surprise that historians often cite Duel as the project that gave Universal Studios the confidence to entrust Spielberg with Jaws (1975) just a short while later. (If you take the menacing big-rig truck in Duel and replace it with the shark in Jaws, the thinking goes, you’re dealing with similar storytelling problems.) Duel was written by acclaimed fantasist Richard Matheson, and the narrative couldn’t be simpler—when an everyman, who’s literally named David Mann (Dennis Weaver), gets into a lane-change hassle with the unseen driver of an 18-wheeler on a desert highway, the driver seeks revenge by spending the rest of the movie running Mann off the road, slamming into the back of Mann’s car, and taunting Mann into the last-man-standing battle suggested by the movie’s title.

          Yes, it’s 90 minutes, excepting a few bits when Mann stops for meals or phone calls, of a dude driving a car while a truck pursues him. The fact that Spielberg makes this relentlessly interesting is testament not only to his inherent gifts as a filmmaker but also to the soul-deep ambition that fueled the early days of his career. Undoubtedly stretching meager resources way past their limits, Spielberg shoots scenes elaborately, collecting every imaginable angle to create options in the editing room, and yet his camera’s nearly always in the right place—whether Spielberg’s shooting from a camera mounted by the rear wheels of the truck or from a camera positioned by the gas pedal of Mann’s car, looking up at the driver, Spielberg finds myriad ways to accentuate the physical details comprising a harrowing experience. We’re right there with Mann in a phone booth when the truck emerges from the rear of the frame, barreling toward the phone booth like a tidal wave; similarly, we’re right there with Mann in the driver’s seat when, at a crucial moment, his car succumbs to mechanical problems, creating a suffocating degree of instant panic.

          So, while it’s easy to list all the important things Duel lacks—a deeply developed leading character, an explanation for the truck driver’s psychotic behavior, a spectrum of integrated supporting characters—it’s more relevant to note how well Spielberg minimizes these shortcomings. Simply put, Duel was just the right project at just the right time for the young director. Rather than smothering a nuanced script with cinematic pyrotechnics—as he did with his first theatrical feature, The Sugarland Express (1973)—Spielberg exploited a one-note script for visual opportunities that might never have occurred to anyone else.

Duel: GROOVY

What’s the Matter with Helen? (1971)

          Following What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) and Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964), writer Henry Farrell generated yet another campy horror story about deranged women. Set in the ’30s, What’s the Matter with Helen? stars Debbie Reynolds and Shelley Winters as widows whose sons are convicted of committing murders. Ostracized as the mothers of monsters, Adelle (Reynolds) and Helen (Winters) flee the Midwest for Hollywood, intent on helping each other start new lives. Outgoing entrepreneur Adelle opens a dance academy for young girls, and Bible-thumping doormat Helen becomes her business partner, playing piano during lessons and sewing costumes for students. As a charming beauty who catches the eye of Linc (Dennis Weaver), the wealthy father of one of her students, Adelle reboots herself effortlessly. Helen has a tougher time. Wracked with guilt over her failure as a mother, Helen believes she’s being stalked, and she imagines that a radio preacher (Agnes Moorhead) is speaking directly to her with messages of repentance. So, as Adelle woos her beau, Helen spirals into derangement.

          As directed by horror stalwart Curtis Harrington, What’s the Matter with Helen? is simultaneously underdeveloped and overwrought. The story is too thin to sustain the movie’s running time, yet Harrington indulges in languid pacing, as well as lengthy production numbers featuring Reynolds and various child performers. Additionally, shooting the entire movie on soundstages precludes any attempt at realism, and the production design isn’t sufficiently opulent to justify the artifice. However, it’s the performances that really hold Helen back from realizing its potential. Reynolds, playing her only big-screen role of the ’70s, seems game for anything, so casting her in the “nice” role represents a missed opportunity. Conversely, Winters is absurd playing yet another in her gallery of grotesques, her dialogue shouted and her eyes bulging at regular intervals—it’s impossible to take a single frame of her performance seriously. As such, casting the actors against type (Reynolds as Helen, Winters as Adelle) would have been a lot more interesting. Nonetheless, for some snarky viewers, the combination of Reynolds’ sweetness and Winters’ flamboyance probably has a certain florid appeal.

What’s the Matter with Helen?: FUNKY

Terror on the Beach (1973)

Dune-buggy riders on the rampage—why not? Two years after being menanced by a driverless 18-wheeler in the small-screen classic Duel (1971), lanky leading man Dennis Weaver found himself on the wrong end of a different set of wheels in this suspenseful telefilm. It should be said up front that Terror on the Beach is a tease, since it lacks the conviction to deliver a nasty ending in keeping with its menacing storyline, but there’s plenty here to entertain the undiscriminating viewer nonetheless. Weaver and Estelle Parsons play Neil and Arlene Gwyn, parents of a generic American family that also includes teenaged kids DeeDee (Susan Dey) and Steve (Kristoffer Tabori). Packed into their spacious RV, the Gwyns head to a remote beach for some quiet camping, but they soon realize they’ve picked the same spot as an aggressive youth gang that may or may not be a cult. Writer Bill Svanoe and director Paul Wendkos don’t worry too much about narrative credibility, providing only the thinnest explanations for why the Gwyns don’t flee during their many opportunities to do so, but the rote storytelling steers things down the exciting Straw Dogs path of a gentle man discovering his capacity for violence. (Richard’s inner brute surfaces once he realizes his wimmin-folk are at risk, so don’t look to Terror on the Beach for advanced thoughts on gender issues.) Aside from the leading performances, which are sufficiently florid to keep things lively, Terror on the Beach offers visual appeal thanks to Wendkos’ use of wide-angle lenses; when the movie’s really cooking, Wendkos portrays the rampaging gang members like Fellini-esque grotesques popping out from behind dunes. Throw in some creepy music and the inherent loneliness of a near-empty beach, and the piece starts to show some style. Plus, just to ensure there’s something for everyone, Wendkos keeps Dey’s figure on ample display. The Partridge Family beauty, who was around 20 when she made this picture, spends much of her screen time in a bikini, to the obvious enjoyment of the male gang members who ogle her.

Terror on the Beach: FUNKY

A Man Called Sledge (1970)

          A Man Called Sledge stitches together a dozen clichés of the spaghetti-Western genre and drains them of virtually all interest, so only the presence of charismatic leading man James Garner provides fleeting (but woefully insufficient) passages of watchability. Garner plays a gunslinger who stumbles across information about a military convoy that regularly transports gold across the desert and stores the loot overnight in a prison, so he conspires to get himself locked in the big house because he’s cooked up a scheme for ripping off the gold from inside the prison. A Man Called Sledge is so generic that its version of the clichéd Western character of a crazy old man is literally named “Old Man.” (If you care, John Marley from The Godfather plays the role.) The movie also has tired Euro-Western tropes like a histrionic music score and silly religious imagery, in this instance the crucifix Garner uses for a splint when his arm gets shot, meaning Jesus literally guides his gun hand. Whatever. Claude Akins and Dennis Weaver pop up in the supporting cast, as do lots of sweaty Italians, but they mostly just glower and gripe, so their presence doesn’t add much.

          Helmed and co-written by tough-guy actor Vic Morrow, A Man Called Sledge is nearly palatable during meat-and-potatoes action scenes, and then thoroughly uninteresting during dialogue passages. The biggest problem is that the characters are undefined, making it impossible to invest in the story. For instance, Sledge himself (Garner, of course) gets several different introductory scenes, none of which illuminates anything unique, so by about 15 minutes into the movie, it’s still unclear whether he’s a loner, part of a duo, or the leader of a gang. Adding insult to injury, the movie is capped by an atrocious theme song called “Other Men’s Gold,” featuring insipid lyrics sung in an amateurish warble—thereby unintentionally encapsulating the bargain-basement flavor of the whole enterprise. Oh, and for a capper, A Man Called Sledge mistakes viciousness for hard-edged storytelling, so the movie feels mean-spirited from beginning to end.

A Man Called Sledge: LAME