1980 Week: Tribute

          Calling a dramatic theater production a “well-made play” carries derogatory implications, not just because the “well-made play” was a popular genre in the 19th century, but because the term implies a certain mixture of predictability, superficiality, and tidiness—nothing earns so much critical enmity as work designed to please everyone. Tribute, based upon Bernard Slade’s stage production of the same name, is very much a “well-made play” in the pejorative sense. Predictable, superficial, tidy? Guilty on all three counts. It’s hardly a coincidence that Slade found great success in the world of TV sitcoms, developing the ridiculous ’60s series The Flying Nun, in addition to writing such plays as Same Time, Next Year, which became the 1978 film of the same name starring Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn. Slade’s signature move as a writer is heading partway down the road toward some emotional place that’s potentially hurtful or meaningful, then tacking sideways with an evasive joke or a simplistic homily.

          Nowhere is this more evident than during Tribute, which plays onscreen as a 121-minute prelude to a cop-out. If the movie didn’t immediately reveal itself as an exercise in jokey sentimentality, it would be a highly frustrating experience. So why is Tribute watchable? The answer is Jack Lemmon, who received a Tony nomination for the stage version and an Oscar nomination for the screen version. He’s wonderful in Tribute, and the match between his character and his screen persona is nearly perfect. Lemmon was uniquely gifted at wriggling out of uncomfortable emotional places by making silly expressions and telling motor-mouthed jokes, so watching him play a man who avoids emotion through humor is satisfying on myriad levels.

          Set in New York, the movie tells the story of Scottie Templeton (Lemmon), a onetime screenwriter now working as a press agent. Beloved by everyone he knows because he’s always quick with a joke and always capable of transforming life into a lighthearted adventure, Scottie has grown estranged from his college-aged son, Jud (Robby Benson), even though Scottie remains friendly with Jud’s mother. She’s Scottie’s ex-wife, Maggie (Lee Remick). Shortly before Maggie delivers Jud to New York for an extended visit, Scottie learns he has a terminal blood disease. Scottie endeavors to fix his relationship with Jud while he still has time, though of course he hopes to shield Jud from the truth lest Jud indulge Scottie out of pity. The complication, of course, is that Scottie doesn’t know the first thing about building real emotional bonds, so his idea of connecting with Jud is arranging for Jud to “meet” pretty young Sally (Kim Cattrall), a recent acquaintance of Scottie’s. The story’s title relates to a grand gesture that one of the characters makes in the final act.

          Directed with pace and polish by Bob Clark, Tribute benefits from fine supporting performances. Cattrall is endearing and Remick is elegant, while Colleen Dewhurst (as Scottie’s doctor) and John Marley (as Scottie’s business partner) add gravitas. Benson does what he can with an underdeveloped role, since his purpose is largely to reflect Lemmon’s light. Ah, but how bright that light is, with Lemmon swerving effortlessly from levity to pathos while stopping at various anguished and confused places in between. He’s reason enough to watch Tribute.

Tribute: GROOVY

Alex & the Gypsy (1976)

          Eccentric, literary, and unpredictable, Alex & the Gypsy has all the makings of a minor classic from the New Hollywood era. The filmmaking is naturalistic but slick, the performances are vivid, and the romantic storyline crosses cultural boundaries by putting a caustic everyman together with a reckless young woman from the fringes of society. The dialogue sparks at regular intervals, and the love scenes are bracing without being explicit, because where else can one encounter Jack Lemmon acting peeved because Geneviève Bujold isn’t sufficiently responsive to his labors during oral sex? For that matter, where else can one encounter a young James Woods dressed like a modern-day Bob Cratchit because his employer enjoys irony? Alex & the Gypsy has attitude and style and wit for days. What it doesn’t have, unfortunately, is a credible story or even consistent characterizations. The picture tries a lot of admirable things but fails at many of them.

          Alex Main (Lemmon) is a low-rent bail bondsman in Los Angeles, and his only employee is accountant/gofer Crainpool (Woods). Alex learns that Maritza (Bujold) has been arrested for attempted murder. As we learn in flashbacks that are awkwardly interspersed throughout the movie, Alex and Maritza used to live together. He met her under ridiculous circumstances, fell under her exotic spell, and suffered a broken heart when she skipped out on him. Now he’s reluctant to provide bail services, even though he still carries a torch. Sap that he is, he bails her out. The story of the movie comprises Alex’s seriocomic attempts to keep Maritza captive until her hearing, plus his efforts to gather evidence that might clear her.

          As directed by John Korty, a skillful maker of documentaries and TV movies whose theatrical features are usually disappointments, Alex & the Gypsy has great moments. A typically colorful scene involves Maritza reading palms at a Greek picnic, or Alex lulling himself to sleep with blinking traffic lights be bought at a police auction because they remind him of fireflies. Lemmon is wonderfully cranky here, balancing a hot temper with vulnerability, and Woods makes a terrific foil. Bujold, like her character, is the wild card. Obviously miscast (she’s French-Canadian), the unique actress renders a tough sort of sensuality, striving valiantly to make sense of a poorly conceived role.

           Yet it’s the script that undermines the best efforts of everyone involved. Behavior and motivations make little sense, and the structural game of jumping between flashbacks and the present creates confusion without delivering compensatory benefits. Still, this is a strange little movie for a major star and a major studio to have made, so even if it’s not a proper New Hollywood artifact, it’s an example of the New Hollywood’s influence. Mainstream movies soon left this sort of adventurousness behind.

Alex & the Gypsy: FUNKY

The War Between Men and Women (1972)

          The title of this romantic comedy is a misnomer, because the picture doesn’t pit archetypal representatives of opposite genders against each other. Rather, the film tracks the unlikely romance between a misanthropic cartoonist and a compassionate divorcée. These two characters engage in conflict, but their clashes stem from the cartoonist’s disagreeable personality and the divorcée’s lingering affection for her ex-husband. Therefore, the only reason the title makes any sense is that the cartoonist often departs on flights of fancy in which he imagines men and women battling each other with weapons. Yet the muddiness of the title is but one of many problems plaguing The War Between Men and Women, which has several meritorious elements despite being a disappointment overall. Not least of the film’s virtues is a go-for-broke leading performance by Jack Lemmon, who plays a heel to the hilt.

          Set in New York, the film revolves around Peter Wilson (Lemmon), a sardonic cartoonist who writes illustrated books and also contributes to posh magazines. Suffering from poor eyesight, he visits his ophthalmologist one day and receives a grim diagnosis before experiencing a meet-cute with fellow patient Terri Kozlenko (Barbara Harris). For Peter, it’s dislike at first sight, but Terri finds him interesting. Later, the two meet again at a party and, improbably, begin dating. Terri’s lighthearted nature wears down Peter’s misanthropy, so they marry, which makes Peter a stepfather to Terri’s three children. Enter the ex-husband, Stephen Kozelenko (Jason Robards), an easygoing photojournalist. Funny and heroic and kind, he’s the opposite of wimpy whiner Peter, so his return causes friction—as does Peter’s discovery that Terri knew all along he’s verging on total blindness. As per the rom-com formula, complications ensue.

          Based upon the writings of humorist James Thurber and cowritten and directed by Melville Shavelson, The War Between Men and Women is an odd sort of picture. About 60 percent of the screen time comprises comic interplay, one-liners, and sight gags, including scenes of Lemmon directly addressing the camera. About 20 percent of the picture comprises animation or mixtures of animation with live action, with the lead character’s cartoons coming to life. And about 20 percent of the picture comprises maudlin melodrama. At its most rudderless, the movie swerves into a long scene of Peter counseling his teenaged stepdaughter about the realities of marriage and sex. The film’s tonal jumps are awkward, especially since the movie hums along fairly nicely whenever Shavelson and cowriter Danny Arnold—who previously collaborated on a TV series extrapolated from Thurber’s work—simply lock into a sitcom-patter groove. Still, Lemmon is terrific here, and one could do a lot worse for comic foils than Harris, Robards, and costar Herb Edelman.

The War Between Men and Women: FUNKY

Avanti! (1972)

          It seems fair to call Avanti! not only the best of Billy Wilder’s four ’70s features, but also his last truly satisfying movie—although such remarks may strike readers as damning with faint praise, since Wilder’s late-career output is unquestionably inferior to the classics he made in the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s. Indeed, Avanti! pales next to, say, Some Like It Hot (1959), but, quite frankly, what comedy doesn’t? That said, Avanti! compensates for significant shortcomings with copious amounts of charm, cleverness, and wit. Although the picture never scales comic heights, instead generating mild amusement from start to finish, it puts across a farcical love story with credibility and sensitivity. Just as importantly, Avanti! reteams Wilder with his most frequent leading man, Jack Lemmon, the perfect interpreter for Wilder’s brand of male angst.

          The story takes place in Italy, where American businessman Wendell Armbruster Jr. (Lemmon) travels to collect the remains of his father, recently killed in a car crash. Before long, Wendell realizes that his father died alongside a female companion, whose daughter, Pamela Piggott (Juliet Mills), travels to Italy to claim her mother’s body. Myriad complications prevent Wendell from achieving his simple goal. Pamela agitates to have the bodies buried in Italy, because that’s where her mother and Wendell Sr. met for annual trysts over the course of a decade. Italian bureaucrats smother Wendell with paperwork. Gangsters steal the corpses in order to extort money. Meanwhile, Wendell slowly evolves from being a fussbudget preoccupied with propriety into an emotional being vulnerable to Pamela’s appeal, echoing the way Wendell Sr. changed during his visits to Italy. Everything in the story is contrived and schematic, of course, but it works. Or, to place a finer point on the matter, it works well enough.

          Adapting a play by Samuel A. Taylor, Wilder and frequent writing partner I.A.L. Diamond expertly coordinate a slew of running gags, weaving comedy and romance together with grace and style. What their adaptation sorely lacks, however, is economy—Avanti! runs a preposterous 140 minutes, with myriad scenes that could easily have been omitted or at least trimmed. The movie is never boring for more than a moment or two, but the narrative bloat diminishes the overall impact. So, too, does the fixation on Pamela’s weight, which, to modern sensibilities, seems as Neanderthal as the film’s overt statements to the effect that all successful men are entitled to mistresses. As always in Wilder’s films, adultery is a joke instead of a cruel betrayal. Still, Lemmon and Mills come off remarkably well, as does Clive Revill, an Englishman dubiously cast as an Italian hotel manager; for a film suffused with authentic local flavor, thanks to alluring location photography and lovely Italian music, Revill’s casting is a false note, albeit an inoffensive one.

Avanti!: GROOVY

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

Save the Tiger (1973)

          As if being one of the best character studies of the ’70s wasn’t enough, Save the Tiger occupies an important place in the career of actor Jack Lemmon, a rare Hollywood star who was equally adept and comedy and drama. Not only did the picture net Lemmon his only Academy Award for a leading role (he’d nabbed a Best Supporting Actor prize for 1955’s Mister Roberts), but Save the Tiger contains a genuine tour de force performance—Lemmon is nearly every scene, cascading through myriad emotions as he meticulously illustrates the psychological dissipation of an everyman whose pursuit of the American Dream has driven him to the brink of financial and moral ruin. Written by Steve Shagan, who adapted his own novel of the same name, Save the Tiger is an unapologetic attempt at a Big Statement about the costs of capitalism. However, because Shagan and director John G. Avildsen keep their focus squarely on the life of one specific man, the filmmakers mostly evade the pitfall of pretension. (A few florid speeches and the obtuse title, which stems from a minor plot element, are among the handful of minor missteps.)

          Set in contemporary Los Angeles, the movie tracks a day in the life of Harry Stoner (Lemmon), a clothing-company executive who has stretched the firm’s finances too thin. As the day progresses, Harry contemplates and executes various schemes for righting the company’s fiscal ship—his attempt at wooing a client with the services of a prostitute proving especially disastrous—while slowly accepting the grim reality that nothing can extricate him from the trap he’s built. Concurrently, Harry wrestles with the existential questions that are brought up by seeing the consequences of his life choices, and he also faces the sobering fact that he’s lost touch with the carefree rhythms of youth.

          Borrowing a page from Arthur Miller, Shagan defines his protagonist as a victim of the quest for the almighty dollar, but unlike Miller’s Death of a Salesman protagonist Willy Loman, who struggles to find dignity while stuck in the grind of a dehumanizing career, Harry Stoner wants it all—excitement, fulfillment, stability, success. In a sense, therefore, Harry’s disease is the mere act of wanting, so the reckless moves he makes to gain position and wealth are symptoms of the disease. Fitting that analogy, Harry’s wildest idea involves a form of surgery to remove the cancer of financial burden: He tries to involve his business partner, Phil Greene (Jack Gilford), in a plan to burn down the company’s building for insurance money. Could there be a more potent spiritual metaphor than the idea of resurrection through self-destruction?

          Because Shagan’s storyline employs such dexterity in dramatizing concepts, occasional sins of theatrical flamboyance are easily forgiven, although it’s harder to overlook the contrived finale. Nonetheless, Save the Tiger is so purposeful and truthful for most of its running time that it’s virtually a paradigm for intimate storytelling. Earning every golden ounce of his Oscar, Lemmon is on fire from the first scene to the last, revealing the tumult boiling inside every Mr. Nice Guy he’s ever played. Led by the wonderful Gilford, the mostly anonymous supporting cast works efficiently in Lemmon’s shadow. Avildsen captures every nuance with a documentarian’s restraint, transforming Save the Tiger into an unvarnished portrait of modern life as a slog through a callous social system.

Save the Tiger: RIGHT ON

Kotch (1971)

          Walter Matthau delivered a series of wonderfully entertaining performances in the ’70s, his rapscallion charm stemming from the ability to hide characters’ warmhearted souls behind a disagreeable persona. For much of the decade, watching Matthau play men who bitch and whine their way toward doing the right thing was a source of endless pleasure. To his credit, however, Matthau wasn’t averse to deviating from his signature style. For instance, Matthau took something of a leap with Kotch by playing not only an overtly nice character but also by playing a senior; after all, the actor was merely middle-aged at the time of filming. And while Matthau scored an Academy Award nomination for his trouble (eventually losing Best Actor to Gene Hackman’s star-making turn in The French Connection), one would be hard-pressed to describe Kotch as a seminal Matthau project. Kotch is forgettable and sentimental, so the picture’s only real claim to fame is that it was the only feature directed by actor Jack Lemmon, Matthau’s frequent onscreen sparring partner. Lemmon’s filmmaking seems competent, though it’s hard to tell how much of the picture’s craftsmanship sprang from Lemmon’s imagination and how much was the result of solid work by Lemmon’s experienced crew. The shortcomings of Kotch are not related to execution. Rather, they stems from the underlying material, because the story—which screenwriter John Paxton adapted from a novel by Katharine Topkins—simply isn’t very interesting.

          The movie’s narrative concerns Joseph Kotcher, a likeable old man living with his son’s family. “Kotch” is enamored of his very young grandson, Duncan, but Kotch’s daughter-in-law wants the old man relocated to a retirement home. In the film’s most poignant sequence, Kotch realizes he’s not wanted, so he hits the road in order to find a new living arrangement. Not long afterward, the film settles into a sitcom-style dynamic: Kotch befriends Erica (Deborah Winters), a young pregnant woman. Although the film avoids any suggestion of May-December romance, the relationship is predictable—Kotch needs someone to nurture, Erica needs a guardian, blah-blah-blah. (It’s also distracting that the still-vital Matthau spends the whole movie hidden behind glasses, old-age makeup, and a white wig.) Filmed with a lush glow and served on a bed of gooey music by Marvin Hamlisch, Kotch is pleasant enough to watch. Furthermore, it’s hard to criticize a story that celebrates compassion, tenderness, and the value of senior citizens. Alas, good intentions only go so far. Especially seeing as how bolder filmmakers working in the same era were able to generate such surprising senior-themed stories as Harry and Tonto (1974) and Going in Style (1979), the unthreatening narrative of Kotch seems bland beyond belief when compared those films. As a result, only Matthau’s innate charisma and the film’s upscale production values give Kotch any real distinction.

Kotch: FUNKY

The Out of Towners (1970)

          The Out of Towners is notable as the first feature that mega-successful playwright/screenwriter Simon wrote directly for the big screen; previously, the comedy kingpin adapted such hits as Barefoot in the Park (1967) and The Odd Couple (1968) from his own plays. The good news is that Simon has a blast taking advantage of opportunities presented by the cinematic medium, so The Out of Towners starts in Ohio, zooms to Boston, lands in New York, and covers dozens of locations. The bad news is that the piece isn’t especially funny—too often, frenetic activity substitutes for inspiration. That said, the premise is amusing, since the picture aims to depict the worst trip to New York any couple has ever experienced. This is Simon in pure-farce mode, not touchy-feely Simon.

          Jack Lemmon stars as George Kellerman, an Ohio businessman summoned to Manhattan for a job interview. While he and his wife, Gwen (Sandy Dennis), fly from Ohio to New York, George shares his grand, OCD-fueled plans for a night of dinner and dancing before acing the interview in the morning. However, Gwen’s enthusiasm is muted—she’s perfectly happy raising the couple’s kids in the Midwest. Then comes a series of calamities: New York gets fogged in, so the couple’s plane is rerouted to Boston; catching trains is a nightmare; New York is gripped by a transit strike; the Kellermans’ hotel reservation is cancelled; muggers prey on the couple; and so on. About half of the problems that Simon contrives represent clever satire, and about half represent narrative desperation. For instance, George’s stubborn insistence to remain inside a police car while the officers at the wheel chase criminals is an absurdly stupid decision. Only Lemmon’s innate likability ensures that George remains more or less palatable, and it helps that Lemmon is virtually peerless at playing frazzled schmucks. Sadly, Dennis can’t come close to matching her costar’s energy, coming across as bland and mousy until the latter half of the picture, when her character suddenly (and unbelievably) grows a spine.

          Compounding the inequity of the leading performance is director Arthur Hiller’s grubby camerawork. Although he paces scenes beautifully, Hiller shoots the picture with the dark, handheld textures of a crime movie; as does Quincy Jones’ weirdly intense score, the look of the film makes some scenes that should be humorous seem frightening. Ultimately, however, the real blame for the project’s overall mediocrity must fall on Simon, who sacrifices character reality for silly gags at regular intervals. Nonetheless, The Out of Towners gained enough stature to warrant a remake in 1999. In the second version of the story, Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn play the titular travelers.

The Out of Towners: FUNKY

The Front Page (1974)

          Item No. 1: Vienna-born writer-director Billy Wilder made his name co-writing delightful screwball comedies such as 1941’s Ball of Fire. Item No. 2: Adapted from the 1928 Ben Hecht-Charles MacArthur stage play The Front Page, Howard Hawks’ 1940 film His Girl Friday is one of the unassailable classics of the screwball-comedy era. Item No. 3: If anyone had the qualifications to remake His Girl Friday, it was Wilder.

          Well, qualified or not, Wilder botched the job.

          One of the key elements of His Girl Friday (and great screwball comedies in general) was the clever use of euphemisms to slip outré material past censors. Wilder’s remake of The Front Page dumps the subtle approach in favor of tiresome vulgarity. Worse, Wilder’s remake ditches the best contrivance of His Girl Friday—Hawks’ movie flipped the gender of one of the play’s leading characters, transforming the original Hecht-MacArthur story about feuding frenemies into a crackling love story. Sure, Wilder had at his disposal two leading men with whom he’d achieved great results before, Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, but dropping the battle-of-the-sexes angle was a bad call.

          As in the original play (Wilder’s movie retains the Hecht-MacArthur setting of the late ’20s), the story concerns gruff newspaper editor Walter Burns (Matthau), who wants his star reporter, Hildy Johnson (Lemmon), to cover the impending execution of a political revolutionary. Alas, Hildy has picked this day to quit the journalism business and get married, so Walter unscrupulously manipulates events to keep Hildy working. Meanwhile, the revolutionary escapes and seeks refuge in the courthouse newsroom, so Hildy shifts from covering a story to hiding a fugitive.

          In any incarnation, the Hecht-MacArthur script is filled with wonderful zingers, but Wilder and frequent collaborator I.A.L. Diamond dilute their adaptation with pointlessly crude additions. For instance, journalists remind a hooker (Carol Burnett, miscast and terrible) that if she hits the streets for money, doing so will cause “a lotta wear and tear on your ass.” She replies with equal sophistication, calling them “shitheels.” Elsewhere, Hildy excoriates Walter by saying, “The only time you get it up is when you put the paper to bed,” and Walter says that if Hildy takes a job writing ad copy, he’ll be a “faggot.”

          One cannot impugn the film’s technical execution, since Wilder uses limited sets effectively and cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth gives the picture a fine polish; similarly, the Lemmon/Matthau bickering-buddies routine was among the smoothest in the business. But so what? All of this good effort was put in the service of a poorly conceived and totally unnecessary retread of material that, in at least two previous incarnations (the original stage play and the Hawks film), was already considered classic.

The Front Page: FUNKY

The China Syndrome (1979)

          For viewers of a certain age, the title The China Syndrome recalls one of the eeriest synchronicities in the history of movie distribution. Starring and produced by Michael Douglas, this terrific thriller revolves around a whistleblower taking control of a nuclear power plant—as a TV reporter and her cameraman record the unfolding crisis, the whistleblower grabs a gun and forces a hostage situation in order to put national attention on safety problems at the facility. Intense, smart, and topical, The China Syndrome would have been a provocative picture in any circumstances, but an extraordinary coincidence made the movie seem downright prescient. Twelve days after the picture opened, a real-life accident occurred at the Three Mile Island nuclear plant in Pennsylvania, accentuating the film’s theme about the potentially catastrophic risks of nuclear energy.

          Directed and co-written by serious-minded humanist James Bridges, The China Syndrome works equally well as a dramatic film and as a suspense piece. As the story progresses, hard-driving reporter Kimberly Wells (Jane Fonda) and her idealistic cameraman Richard Adams (Michael Douglas) shift guises several times: They start out as observers, become opportunistic voyeurs, and finally transform into activists once they’re terrified by the prospect of a “China Syndrome,” a nuclear meltdown so severe that a plant’s core burrows through the entire globe. (Science tells us this eventuality is impossible, but the notion is nonetheless a sexy scare tactic.)

          The emotional heart of the movie, of course, is Jack Lemmon’s impassioned performance as the whistleblower, Jack Godell. A normal man pushed past his limit by his employers’ reckless indifference, Jack represents the quiet voice of reason exploding into scared-shitless rage, thus reflecting the tenor of anti-nuclear activists in the era of the No Nukes benefit concerts. Bridges channels this disquieting historical moment through meticulous storytelling, creating a rational narrative framework that counterpoints the edgy behavior of the characters. Furthermore, the picture taps into the conspiracy-theory vibe that permeated many grown-up ’70s flicks, and Bridges orchestrates the work of veteran character actors—including Wilford Brimley, James Hampton, Richard Herd, and James Karen—who balance the stars’ more flamboyant work. Best of all, The China Syndrome is an expertly mounted slow burn with a dynamic payoff, since the tension Bridges generates during the climax is quite potent.

The China Syndrome: RIGHT ON

Airport (1970) & Airport 1975 (1974) & Airport ’77 (1977) & The Concorde: Airport ’79 (1979)

          It’s appropriate that the last movie bearing the Airport brand name begins with a balloon getting inflated, because this series is filled with nothing so much as hot air. Melodramatic, overlong, and trite, each of the four Airport flicks is a midair soap opera, with characterization and dialogue that would barely pass muster in the worst episodic television. If not for the innate allure of disaster stories and the presence of motley casts comprising former A-listers and permanent C-listers, these pictures would have vanished into obscurity immediately after they were made. However, one should never underestimate the public’s appetite for vapid escapism: The first picture was the biggest moneymaker of 1970 (out-earning M*A*S*H and Patton), and it somehow snared 10 Oscar nominations, including one for Best Picture. As the people filling that balloon at the beginning of The Concorde: Airport ’79 know, hot air always rises.

          The first flick, simply titled Airport and adapted from Arthur Hailey’s bestselling novel of the same name, is lumbering and dull. An airport manager (Burt Lancaster) and a pilot (Dean Martin) face a crisis when a disturbed passenger (Van Heflin) sneaks a bomb onto a passenger jet. Contrived romantic subplots abound, as do goofy elements like a storyline about an elderly woman (Helen Hayes) who keeps sneaking onto flights as a stowaway. Shot in a flat, ugly style that reveals every location as part of a garishly lit soundstage, the talky movie grinds through so much nonsense that Martin’s plane doesn’t even take off until after the one-hour mark.

          Only about 30 minutes of the movie contain actual disaster-oriented action, so it’s notable that even though Airport was the first hit for the genre, the familiar victim-every-10-minutes formula wasn’t perfected until producer Irwin Allen (who had nothing to do with the Airport movies) made The Poseidon Adventure in 1972. About the only lively element of Airport is George Kennedy’s lusty supporting performance as airport engineer Joe Patroni, who spouts macho lines like, “I’ll have this mother outta here by midnight!” There’s also some mild interest in spotting moments that were later spoofed in Airplane! (1980), like the vignette of a stewardess slapping a hysterical passenger.

          For the imaginatively titled sequel Airport 1975, producer Jenning Lang took the franchise reins and shamelessly copied Irwin Allen’s style; Lang also hired square-jawed leading man Charlton Heston, who previously led the cast of Lang’s Allen-esque disaster flick Earthquake (1974). Although it’s just as insipid as the original film, Airport 1975 is more enjoyable, simply because it doesn’t take itself seriously; the movie is all about cheap thrills and over-the-top storytelling. In this one, a 747 is struck in mid-air by a tiny private plane, blowing out the cockpit and killing the flight crew. After the accident, a stewardess (Karen Black) has to keep the plane steady until her boyfriend (Heston) can reach the plane via helicopter, climb into the cockpit by rope ladder, and steer the jet to a safe landing. About the only thing more absurd than the plot is the cast, which also includes Linda Blair, Sid Caesar, Erik Estrada, Helen Reddy, and Gloria Swanson (as herself!). Kennedy reprises his Patroni role to mostly inconsequential effect.

          After this crescendo of craptastic cinema, the series fell to earth with Airport ’77, a boring thriller about a plane that gets hijacked over the Bermuda Triangle, and then plummets into the ocean. Instead of mid-air suspense, most of the picture delivers dull tight-quarters bickering set in the underwater jet, and everyone in the mixed-bag cast looks bored: Joseph Cotten, Lee Grant, Christopher Lee, Jack Lemmon, James Stewart, and so on. (Kennedy’s back as Patroni, not that it makes much difference.) Airport ’77 is the nadir of a series whose quality level was never high.

          The final entry in the franchise is arguably the most enjoyable, at least from a bad-cinema perspective, because The Concorde: Airport ’79 is preposterous right from the first frames. Cinematic cheese is spread evenly across a ludicrous story, cringe-inducing dialogue, and a parade of laughable performances. In other words, Airport ’79 marks the moment the franchise officially became The Love Boat with explosions. Kennedy finally gets promoted to a leading role, co-piloting the famously sleek French jet of the title with a smooth Gallic flyer (Alain Delon). Meanwhile, an evil industrialist (Robert Wagner) wants to blow up the plane because one of the passengers is carrying evidence that incriminates him for dastardly deeds. Wagner tries to take out the Concorde with a robot drone, a manned fighter jet, and, finally, a bomb smuggled on board when the Concorde conveniently hits the tarmac long enough for sabotage. Several actors who should have known better got roped into acting in this drivel (Eddie Albert, Cicely Tyson, David Warner), but most of the screen time goes to ’70s also-rans like John Davidson, Andrea Marcovicci, and Jimmie J.J. Walker. Cementing the Love Boat parallel, Charo even shows up for a cameo.

Airport: LAME

Airport 1975: FUNKY

Airport ’77: SQUARE

The Concorde: Airport ’79: FUNKY