Man on a Swing (1974)

          Using a murder mystery to draw viewers into the peculiar life of a factory worker who claims to have ESP, Man on a Swing is among the most unusual detective films of the ’70s. Although clairvoyance was not uncommon as a plot device in cop shows of the same era, Man on a Swing offers multiple levels of psychological weirdness, depicting not only the strangely contoured existence of the self-proclaimed psychic but also the ways that his presence affects the tightly wound policeman investigating the murder. Perhaps the most noteworthy aspect of the picture is Joel Grey’s performance as the mentalist—this was Grey’s most significant screen work in the immediate aftermath of his Oscar-winning turn in Cabaret (1972). Although Grey’s portrayal is not wholly compelling, it’s interesting to watch this film and wonder where his career might have gone if his focus had been screen work, rather than stage acting. Whether he’s creepily riding a swing while talking about murder or throwing himself against walls during trances, Grey seems game for just about anything.

          Allegedly based on a true story, the movie begins with police detective Lee Tucker (Cliff Robertson) investigating the murder of a young woman. Clues lead nowhere until Franklin Wills (Grey) comes forward, claiming he’s psychically aware of helpful information. What ensues is a bizarre dance between the characters, because even as Lee wrestles with frustration over the slow-moving investigation and marital tensions at home, he grows to believe that Franklin knows about the murder not for supernatural reasons but because Franklin was involved. Concurrently, Lee experiences harassing phone calls, so he becomes convinced that Franklin is playing some sort of mind game.

          In its best moments, Man on a Swing is eerie and offbeat, with flashes of unnerving saw music by composer Lalo Schifrin juicing the mood. In its worst moments, of which there are many, the movie becomes tedious. Long passages elapse with nothing much happening, creating the impression that Lee sits around waiting for Franklin to make the next move—not exactly the formula for exciting cinema. Director Frank Perry, partway through a unique run that includes The Swimmer (1969), Diary of a Mad Housewife (1970), and Rancho Deluxe (1975), displays his usual knack for unexpected moments, but his failure to render the satisfying rhythms of a whodunit is a fatal flaw. Not helping matters is Robertson’s somnambulistic leading performance, because his low energy compounds the problems of a poorly conceived characterization. Grey ends up dominating Man on a Swing by default, but even he is trapped by the limitations of the script.

Man on a Swing: FUNKY

Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson (1976)

          The best of Robert Altman’s ’70s movies cleverly concealed social satire beneath the candy-coated surface of lively entertainment—essentially, the formula that made M*A*S*H (1970) so effective. Yet as the decade wore on, Altman succumbed more and more frequently to pretentiousness, as if he felt he’d been anointed the official chronicler of America’s foibles. From its obnoxiously overlong title to its turgid non-narrative sprawl, Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson represents Altman at his most insufferably self-important. Adapted (very loosely) from a stage play by Arthur Kopit, the picture takes place in the twilight of the Wild West era, when hero-turned-celebrity William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody (Paul Newman) has become the proprietor of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, a tacky attraction/show that’s like a precursor to the modern theme park.

          Bill and his employees trot out actors who re-create scenes of frontier action, interspersed with rodeo-style equestrian displays and performances by genuine historical figures, including Annie Oakley (Geraldine Chaplin). The movie tells the “story” of Bill’s frustrating attempt to transform aging Indian leader Sitting Bull (Frank Kaquitts) into his latest star attraction. The problem is that Sitting Bull serves no agenda but his own. Given this colorful premise, Buffalo Bill and the Indians should be wonderfully clever and fun. And, indeed, Altman and co-writer Alan Rudolph take the piss out of every showbiz institution they can get their hands on, so Annie’s husband/manager (John Considine) constantly frets he’ll get shot by his wife; Sitting Bull’s interpreter (Will Sampson) hides behind Indian stoicism while playing mind games with Bill; and Bill himself is a drunken fraud whose signature long hair is a wig.

          As always, Altman builds scenes around eccentric behavior that he observes from a distance through the use of hidden microphones and long lenses. There’s a lived-in reality to the way characters occupy space in Altman’s films that virtually no other director can match, and Altman’s democratic approach levels the playing field for actors. With the exception of Burt Lancaster—whose character functions as a quasi-narrator and therefore exists somewhat outside the regular action of the picture—everyone in Buffalo Bill and the Indians comes across as a member of a smoothly integrated ensemble. Some performers thrive in this milieu (Joel Grey’s portrayal of an unflappable producer is terrific, and Samson’s quietude manifests as tremendous charisma), while others get lost, especially when burdened with underwritten roles. (A miscast Harvey Keitel, as Buffalo Bill’s nerdy nephew, is one such casualty.)

          The problem, as was so often the case in Altman’s films, is that there’s simultaneously too much happening (in terms of chaotic onscreen action) and too little happening (in terms of forward narrative momentum). Altman spends so much time lingering on pointless details and unimportant subplots that the main thrust of the piece is overwhelmed. Furthermore, since the essence of Altman’s theme is that America is driven by such petty impulses as the desire for notoriety and the refusal to acknowledge harsh realities, the movie’s cynicism feels convenient, fashionable, and trite. After all, the same director had explored almost identical thematic terrain in his previous film, the far more effective Nashville (1975).

Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson: FUNKY

Cabaret (1972)

          Cabaret is the quintessential musical for people who don’t like musicals, myself included. Not only does it tell a hard-hitting, provocative story instead of just delivering cheerful fluff, it’s a real movie that happens to have music instead of a contrived framework for musical numbers. Tunes arise naturally during moments in which characters believably break into song, such as performances in the titular nightclub, so the numbers become tools that wizardly director Bob Fosse employs, alongside brazen editing and meticulous camerawork, to guide viewers into the psyches of the characters.

          Adapted from a pair of musicals that were in turn based on autobiographical stories by the English writer Christopher Isherwood, who lived in Germany during the Third Reich’s rise to power, Jay Presson Allen’s Oscar-nominated script weaves the myriad threads of source material into a seamless whole, telling the story of how sexually confused Englishman Brian Roberts (Michael York) learns life lessons with, and from, crass but vulnerable American songstress Sally Bowles (Liza Minelli) during their eventful idyll in pre-World War II Berlin. Sally sings at the debauched Kit Kat Klub, and Brian is a new neighbor at her boarding house. After her overpowering personality draws Brian into Sally’s life, the two become enmeshed with three Germans: poor striver Fritz (Fritz Wepper), rich Nazi apologist Maximilian (Helmut Griem), and sheltered Jewish heiress Natalia (Marisa Berenson). The audience’s sense of what the future holds for these people lends a sense of pervasive dread to the narrative.

          Tying the film together are surrealistic scenes featuring the Kit Kat Klub’s unnamed Master of Ceremonies (Joel Grey), who functions as a perverse Greek Chorus complete with grotesque makeup and an immaculate tux.
          Fosse’s storytelling is astonishing from the first scene to the last because he jumps from incisive subtlety to shocking directness at regular intervals, often in the same scene, and his legendary choreography infuses the film with propulsive physicality. Whether he’s staging a comical number such as “Two Ladies” or a tender one (especially the moving “Maybe This Time”), Fosse adeptly weaves the themes of the musical interludes into the flow of the story, so Cabaret never feels like it’s stopping for big numbers. Yet while the dancing is sensuous and spectacular, Fosse’s handling of quiet dramatic scenes is just as confident. Minelli and York have never been better than they are here, with Minelli blending soft colors into her brash persona, and York expertly depicting his character’s complicated mix of moral outrage and sexual angst. Grey is equally great, turning “Emcee” into one of the most enigmatically creepy characterizations of the early ’70s.

Cabaret: OUTTA SIGHT