The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975)

          Anger and darkness aren’t the first things that come to mind upon hearing the name “Neil Simon,” but it’s useful to remember an aphorism that was likely coined by TV funnyman Steve Allen: “Comedy is tragedy plus time.” In other words, misfortune is so integral to the soul of humor that exploring the grim subject matter permeating The Prisoner of Second Avenue really wasn’t such a leap for the guy behind such bittersweet classics as The Odd Couple. Where The Prisoner of Second Avenue represents a break from Simon’s usual style, however, is that the writer doesn’t hide pain behind pratfalls. Although the movie, based on Simon’s 1971 play of the same name, has plenty of the writer’s signature rat-a-tat dialogue as well as a steady stream of visual gags, it’s not designed as a laugh riot, per se. Rather, it’s a bitterly satirical exploration of the myriad ways the modern world can drive people insane.

          Jack Lemmon and Anne Bancroft, both perfectly cast, star as Mel and Edna Edison, residents of Manhattan’s Upper East Side. During a heat wave that’s compounded by a garbage strike and periodic power outages, Mel spirals toward a nervous breakdown that’s triggered by hassles with neighbors, the loss of a job, a robbery, and other traumas. And when Mel finally decides to fight back at the unjust universe, he manages to pick the wrong target, mistaking a young man (Sylvester Stallone) for a mugger and then chasing the poor guy through Central Park and seizing his wallet, which Mel believes to be his own. Upon discovering his mistake, Mel reports to Edna, “I mugged some kid in the street.” Proving she’s reached her limit, as well, she replies, “How much did we get?”

          That wild sequence, which Simon characteristically nails with a perfect comic grace note, is indicative of The Prisoner of Second Avenue’s vibe. In many ways, this is a serious picture about troubling topics, and yet it’s presented flippantly. Not only does the wiseass humor suit the milieu, but it reveals one aspect of Simon’s genius—using jokes to make the exploration of pathos palatable to people who might normally avoid, say, the work of Arthur Miller or Eugene O’Neill. To be clear, neither The Prisoner of Second Avenue nor, for that matter, any of Simon’s stories should be mistaken for titanic literary achievements. Simon writes trifles, and some of them have more nutritional value than others. For instance, the takeaway from The Prisoner of Second Avenue has something to do with gaining perspective and not letting the pressures of daily life metastasize into full-on neuroticism. Simon services these themes well, dramatizing that some of Mel’s problems are of his own making.

          Lemmon, who previously appeared in the screen version of Simon’s The Odd Couple (1968) and the Simon screen original The Out-of-Towners (1970), is an ideal vessel for the writer’s laments about obnoxious neighbors, overbearing relatives, and unfeeling corporations. Meanwhile, Bancroft is an excellent foil, playing early scenes straight but then echoing Lemmon’s character with a downward spiral of her own. So, even if producer-director Melvin Frank’s execution is little more than serviceable, the material and the performances are winning. Additionally, The Prisoner of Second Avenue captures a particular time, that being the bad old days when New York City was poised on the edge of oblivion thanks to financial problems, rampant crime, and ubiquitous cynicism.

The Prisoner of Second Avenue: GROOVY

Mame (1974)

          By the mid-’70s, old-fashioned movie musicals were mostly relegated to the slag heap of cinema history—the same year this misguided project was released, for instance, MGM issued the first of its That’s Entertainment documentaries celebrating the good old days of singing-and-dancing extravaganzas. Given this context, the interesting question to ask about Mame is not why it failed so spectacularly with audiences and critics, but why the folks at Warner Bros. expected any other outcome. The type of fizzy Depression-era story told in Mame was a cliché better suited to satire (as in 1978’s Movie Movie) than straight treatment; the overwrought production numbers in Mame evoke the bloated CinemaScope/VistaVision movies of the ’50s; and aging star Lucille Ball had just finished an epic two-decade run as TV’s reigning comedienne, meaning there was zero evidence that people wanted to see her in a movie, much less a musical. Add in the fact that the movie’s tunes are pure cornpone schlock, and the recipe for disaster is complete. Throughout its unrelentingly boring 132 minutes, Mame bludgeons viewers with bland music, contrived storytelling, stiff acting, and tired one-liners. Other affronts to good taste include flamboyant costumes straight out of a drag-queen revue and ridiculous close-ups of Ball photographed with the world’s thickest haze filter.

          It’s amazing that something this inert derived from beloved source material. The story of Mame begins with Patrick Deenis’ semiautobiographical 1955 novel Auntie Mame, a fanciful account of the eccentric aunt who raised Dennis after his father died. The book inspired a popular 1958 comedy film starring Rosalind Russell, which in turn led to the creation of the 1966 stage musical Mame, with Angela Lansbury. Inexplicably, Lansbury was replaced with Ball, who couldn’t sing half as well as Lansbury. Worse, director Gene Saks—a holdover from the stage production—clearly lacked the chops to control a production (and a star) this big. Artificial, dull, and flat, Mame just sits there on screen, droning one from one laborious scene to the next. Ball is wrong on nearly every level, bungling jokes and steps and tunes while troupers including Bea Arthur and Robert Preston try to enliven supporting roles. Meanwhile, Saks and co. borrow camera and editing tricks from Robert Wise—who dominated ’60s musicals with The Sound of Music and West Side Story—without matching Wise’s gift for brisk storytelling. If anyone ever decides to make a documentary titled That’s Not Entertainment!, scenes from Meme should definitely be included.

Mame: LAME

The One and Only (1978)

          Steve Gordon was just beginning an impressive career when he died; after several years of writing for sitcoms, he made an auspicious directorial debut with the beloved comedy Arthur (1981), based on his own script, then suffered a fatal heart attack in 1982 at the age of 43. The only other feature on his too-brief filmography is The One and Only, which he wrote and produced, and which has similarities to Arthur. The story of a self-possessed man-child whose dreams of stardom lead him to a career in professional wrestling, The One and Only shares with Arthur the conceit that a person who lives only for laughter can find a soulmate who sees substance beneath the silliness.

          Henry Winkler stars as Andy Schmidt, a college student who’s convinced that he’s destined for greatness, despite having shown no particular skill for his chosen vocation of acting. Quite to the contrary, Andy’s such an irrepressible ham that during a school production of a classical play, he uses his one line as an excuse for interrupting the show with cheap comedy shtick. Nonetheless, his single-minded determination wins the heart of amiable coed Mary Crawford (Kim Darby).

          Much to the consternation of Mary’s uptight parents (William Daniels and Polly Holliday), the young lovers get hitched and move from the Midwest to New York, where Andy tries and fails to get an acting career going. Crossing paths with a little person who works on the wrestling circuit, Milton (Hervé Villechaize), Andy accidentally discovers his true destiny as a shameless crowd-pleaser who assumes various identities in the wrestling ring, from a psychic who hypnotizes opponents to a Nazi who bops his enemies with a war helmet.

           As directed by old-school comedy pro Carl Reiner, The One and Only goes down smoothly, mixing amiable I-gotta-be-me speechifying with terrific one-liners (some of the short jokes made at Villechaize’s expense are laugh-out-loud funny, though they definitely precede political correctness). Gordon’s script is pure fluff, and the story stops just when it’s picking up steam, but funny is funny, so it’s hard to argue with results. It helps that Winkler is terrific, all charm and comic timing, although Gene Saks (best known as a director of many Neil Simon films and plays) nearly steals the movie with his caustic performance as Andy’s hilariously crude agent.

The One and Only: FUNKY