The Morning After (1974)

          An unflinching made-for-TV story about alcoholism energized by the casting of  likeable Dick Van Dyke in the leading role, The Morning After tracks a man’s descent from managing a drinking problem to something much worse. Adapted from Jack B. Weiner’s novel by the great Richard Matheson, in one of his rare ventures outside the realm of genre fiction, the film moves at a remarkable pace, zooming from one incisive episode to the next. Van Dyke, who was open about his real-life alcoholism, attacks his role with tremendous commitment, so while he can’t quite reach the depths that, say, Jack Lemmon or Ray Milland did in their celebrated performances as men addicted to alcohol, Van Dyke erases any trace of his usual light-comedy style. Aiding Van Dyke considerably is costar Lynn Carlin, who plays the protagonist’s wife. Rather than simply delivering a rote version of the familiar “long-suffering spouse” role, she plays each scene specifically and vividly, illustrating the torment of a woman trying to reconcile the need for self-preservation with the desire to help a loved one. Other supporting players, including Don Porter (as the protagonist’s boss), render fine work as well, but the filmmakers—under the sure hand of journeyman director Richard T. Heffron—wisely keep the focus on Van Dyke’s character.

          Charlie Lester (Van Dyke) works as a speechwriter for an oil company in Los Angeles. Outwardly, he lives the American Dream, with a lovely wife, Fran (Carlin), and two children. Yet what coworkers and friends are mostly too polite to mention is that Charlie drinks to excess whenever he’s near alcohol. After one too many nights when Charlie doesn’t make it home after blacking out, Fran starts to snap, kicking the film’s drama into motion. She pushes her husband to stop drinking, which only compels him to drink more, and that, in turn, causes him to show up hung over at work, infuriating his straight-arrow boss. Charlie’s episodes become more and more unruly, and on several occasions he gets physical with Fran. Every time he sobers up, Charlie gets apologetic and weepy, and he eventually agrees to try therapy. Yet even the revelation that Charlie’s self-loathing stems from withholding parents who favored his golden-boy younger brother fails to suppress Charlie’s unquenchable thirst.

          The Morning After is exceedingly simple in its construction, and that’s why it’s so effective despite running just 75 minutes. Over the course of that short running time, we watch Charlie shift from a façade of normalcy to a pathetic vision of unchecked illness. The movie offers explanations and it also offers solutions, but the filmmakers let everything hinge on Charlie’s willingness to get better. Most stories about alcoholism end up feeling like PSAs for treatment options, but The Morning After doesn’t follow that path. Instead, this fine telefilm heads unrelentingly into the heart of darkness. And if you’re wondering why The Morning After isn’t in wide circulation, music is probably the reason; cover versions of the Beatles’ “Yesterday” are woven into the storytelling, and one imagines that licensing the song’s continued use is prohibitively expensive.

The Morning After: GROOVY

The Candidate (1972)

          “Our lives are more and more determined by forces that overwhelm the individual,” remarks Senatorial candidate Bill McKay (Robert Redford) at one point in The Candidate. The same can be said of McKay’s life, because over the course of this remarkable movie, the idealistic young activist gets swallowed by the machine that sells politicians to the American public. And keep in mind this sobering film was made two decades before the emergence of the Internet as a key factor in campaigns, so the realities to which it speaks have only become more troubling in the ensuing years. The wild part, of course, is that The Candidate isn’t a pure drama—it’s got a strong thread of comedy, because the filmmakers zeroed in on the absurdity of modern American politics. This is mainstream cinema of the highest order, blending lively entertainment and important themes into a unique viewing experience.

          The Candidate was written by Jeremy Larner, a speechwriter for Eugene McCarthy’s 1968 presidential campaign and, incidentally, the author of the book and screenplay for the eccentric 1971 drama Drive, He Said. Larner netted a Best Original Screenplay Oscar for The Candidate—although, inexplicably, he’s never written another movie—and his work meshes beautifully with that of his two plugged-in collaborators, director Michael Ritchie and star Robert Redford. Together, the team present the fictional McKay as a keeper of the Kennedy flame, an unapologetic liberal concerned with the troubles of minorities and the underclass. He’s blessed and cursed with unique political gifts, not only because he’s articulate and handsome but also because he’s the son of a legendary Senator, John J. McKay (Melvyn Douglas).

          When the story begins, Bill is happily involved with community activism and legal aid for the poor. He’s approached by ambitious campaign manger Marvin Lucas (Peter Boyle), who envisions Bill as an ideal opponent for slick Republican incumbent Crocker Jarmon (Don Porter). Naïvely (or cunningly) accepting Marvin’s line that a Senatorial campaign can be used to air Bill’s favorite issues, Bill agrees to run, although he’s told there’s little chance of actually winning. Then, as the campaign gains momentum, Bill’s idealism suffers the death of a thousand cuts when he makes compromises and softens his rhetoric into noncommittal generalities. The magnificent tension of the story arises from the question of whether Bill genuinely regrets the changes he’s making. As he succumbs to power and temptation, does Bill retain his inherent goodness, or does he willingly accede to “forces that overwhelm the individual”?

          Director Ritchie, who previously collaborated with Redford on Downhill Racer (1969), delivers some of his career-best work here, orchestrating complex scenes that simultaneously explore multiple dynamics, and his use of montage to simulate the excitement and pageantry of political events is impressive. The filmmakers also benefit from outstanding performances across the board. Yet it’s the subtlety of The Candidate that impresses the most, from the way Larner’s script evokes the fraught relationships between Bill and the people in his life to the way Redford communicates tiny nuances as they pass through his character’s mind.

          The Candidate runs a bit long at 110 minutes, and the picture could have benefited from a few more jokes to arrive at a more consistent tone. The movie is also, to be frank, a bit on the clinical side. However, these quibbles are insignificant in the face of how many things this truly great movie gets right. The Candidate is without question among the handful of truly essential films ever made about American politics, and it’s a career milestone for everyone involved.

The Candidate: RIGHT ON

The Norliss Tapes (1973)

          Despite overseeing the TV movies The Night Stalker (1972) and The Night Strangler (1973), producer Dan Curtis wasn’t involved with the short-lived series derived from those pictures, Kolchak: The Night Stalker. Undaunted, Curtis produced and directed a feature-length pilot for a copycat project titled The Norliss Tapes. Although the proposed series never materialized, the Norliss Tapes feature survives today, via syndication and home video, as a stand-alone thriller featuring Curtis’ favorite monster, the vampire. (Lest we forget, Curtis created the cult-fave bloodsucker soap opera Dark Shadows, which ran from 1966 to 1971.) While The Norliss Tapes is unquestionably derivative, it’s a decent little shocker with a solid cast of reliable B-level actors.

          When the picture begins, publisher Sanford Evans (Don Porter) visits the home of an author who’s gone missing, then finds recordings related to the author’s in-progress book. As Evans listens to the tapes, we see flashbacks depicting weird events the author, David Norliss (Roy Thinnes), witnessed. In true Curtis fashion, things get spooky fast, with little left to the imagination. It turns out Norliss was contacted by a woman named Ellen Cort (Angie Dickinson), who claimed to have seen her dead husband rooting around their house as a vampire/zombie/whatever. (Curtis presents this vignette with full-on monster makeup, offering a nastier jolt than one might expect from a small-screen flick.)

          Meeting Ellen starts Norliss down the road of investigating nefarious types who are bringing the dead back to life for mysterious reasons. Along the way, Norliss encounters a sexy spiritualist (Vonetta McGee), a disbelieving sheriff (Claude Akins), and, eventually, a demon trying to enter the mortal world. Curtis crams a lot of enjoyably silly stuff into 74 minutes, so even though Thinnes is a forgettable leading man, it’s easy to see where this material could have gone with a more dynamic star. It doesn’t hurt that Dickinson looks fantastic, and that Curtis was adept at boosting production value with low camera angles and shadowy lighting. The Norliss Tapes won’t linger very long in your memory, but it’s fun to watch once.

The Norliss Tapes: FUNKY