Hex (1973)

          On paper, this one sounds like a sure winner—a supernatural thriller set on the American prairie in the early 20th century, with motorcyclists and witches fighting against each other. Oh, and the cast includes Gary Busey, Keith Carradine, Scott Glenn, Dan Haggerty, and stunning model/actress Cristina Raines. On film, however, Hex is a perplexing misfire, neither pedestrian enough to work as a run-of-the-mill genre piece nor weird enough to qualify as so-bad-it’s-good cult fare. The movie is amateurish and muddled and slow, with an offbeat premise and a few somewhat exciting scenes. At its worst, Hex becomes utterly silly (especially when cornpone music kicks into gear on the soundtrack) and that’s not exactly the vibe one looks for in a supernatural thriller.

          The picture opens at a remote farm occupied by beautiful sisters Acacia (Hilarie Thompson) and Oriole (Raines), who seem like Old West eccentrics. They drift into a nearby frontier town, where they see a traveling motorcycle gang led by Whizzer (Keith Carradine), who claims to be an ex-World War I flyer, interacting with the locals. After the sisters leave town, Whizzer and his pals get into a hassle with a redneck named Brother Billy (Haggerty), so the bikers flee the town and discover the farm, taking the sisters hostage at gunpoint. Soon Whizzer falls into a romantic triangle, because even though he’s involved with fellow biker China (Doria Cook), he finds Oriole irresistible. Meanwhile, Acacia takes a liking to soft-spoken mechanic Golly (Mike Combs). But when biker Giblets (Busey) tries to rape Acacia, Oriole uses magic that she learned from her Native American father to get revenge. The movie them spirals into the hippy-dippy-’70s equivalent of a slasher flick, with members of the biker gang esuffering gruesome deaths until the final showdown between Oriole and Whizzer.

          Very little of this stuff makes sense, either in terms of basic logic or recognizable human behavior, and choppy editing exacerbates the myriad script problems. (For instance, what’s with all the material featuring the very white Robert Walker Jr. as some sort of ethnic/spiritual martial artist?) The actors playing bikers give spirited performances, but Raines’ lifeless work drains the picture of vitality, and it’s odd whenever the movie drifts into comic terrain. (Someone insults a woman by yelling, “Up yer skeeter with a red-hot mosqueeter!”) On the plus side, Raines gets to wear a creepy bear costume during the climax, and that’s something one doesn’t get to see every day. FYI, Hex is sometimes marketed on video under the titles Charms and The Shrieking.

Hex: LAME

Kung Fu (1972)

          “I seek not to know the answers,” soft-spoken Shaolin priest Kwai Chang Caine says at one point, “but to understand the questions.” And that, in a handful of words, captures what made the Western TV series Kung Fu (1972-1975) unique. Superficially, the novelty of the series involved juxtaposing Eastern martial arts with the traditional milieu of the American frontier—and, for that matter, giving Eastern martial arts some of their earliest mainstream exposure in the U.S. On a deeper level, the series was about spirituality, seen through the prism of a soulful young man struggling to reconcile his quest for inner peace with the realities of a violent world. That fascinating paradox infuses the Kung Fu pilot movie, which has aged beautifully. A strong piece of work introducing all of the clever stylistic flourishes of the series while remaining grounded by leading man David Carradine’s compelling performance, Kung Fu works well both as a stand-alone narrative and as a lead-in for the subsequent series.

          As did episodes of the weekly show, Kung Fu cuts back and forth between “present-day” scenes of the American West and flashbacks to China, tracking Caine (Carradine) as he makes his way through the U.S. with only the humble rags he wears and the small pack he carries on his back. In flashbacks, we learn that when he was an orphaned child, Caine won entrance to a Shaolin temple by demonstrating endurance and humility. Trained in martial arts and spirituality, Caine left the temple but soon found trouble—after witnessing the pointless murder of a beloved teacher, Caine responded by killing the Chinese nobleman who was responsible. Fleeing China to avoid execution, Caine travelled to America, where his long-lost brother lives. The contrivance of the series is that while Caine searches for his brother, he happens upon a new group of troubled people every week, helping them with his combat skills and his transcendent worldview even as bounty hunters hired by the Chinese aristocracy try to capture or kill Caine.

          In the pilot movie, Caine finds work on a railroad crew, eventually leading a rebellion against callous white overseers who endanger Chinese laborers in the name of quick profits. As directed by Jerry Thorpe, who later won an Emmy for directing one of the series’ weekly episodes, the Kung Fu pilot is visually impressive. The Western scenes are crowded and dusty, while the flashback scenes to the temple have a magical quality thanks to image-softening lens filters, moody lighting, and the selective use of slow motion. (The abundance of candles within the temple, as well as the gentle flute music on the soundtrack, adds to the soothing effect.) Playing Caine’s principal mentor, the blind Master Po, Keye Luke gives an indelible performance, making the script’s fanciful analogies and aphorisms sound like wisdom for the ages. Radames Pera is equally well cast as Young Caine, capturing the character’s determination and need for connection, and it’s a kick to see David Carradine’s real-life younger half-brother, Keith Carradine, playing Caine as a teenager.

          Not every episode of the ensuing series works as well as this pilot movie, and some of the stylistic flourishes lost their potency through repetition. (Furthermore, the less said about the 1987 TV movie Kung Fu: The Next Generation and the 1993-1997 syndicated series Kung Fu: The Legend Continues, both of which are set in the present with David Carradine playing a descendant of his original character, the better.) Nonetheless, the first Kung Fu movie set a high bar in terms of artistic, cultural, and thematic ambition. No surprise, then, that controversy emerged over its authorship—to this day, rumors persist that Bruce Lee generated the idea for the show, although what’s undisputed is merely that Lee was briefly considered for the leading role.

Kung Fu: GROOVY

1980 Week: The Long Riders

          Offering a sweeping view of the Jesse James story that includes the relationship between brothers Frank and Jesse James and their longtime comrades-in-arms, the Younger brothers, The Long Riders is exquisitely rendered on many levels, with crisp direction by Walter Hill, luminous photography by Ric Waite, and a plaintive score by Ry Cooder. The movie is best known for its cast, featuring four sets of real-life brothers. James and Stacy Keach play Jesse and Frank James; David, Keith, and Robert Carradine play the Youngers; Dennis and Randy Quaid play the Millers, two members of the James-Younger Gang; and Christopher and Nicholas Guest play the Fords, two unsavory wannabes whose association with the gang has tragic consequences. (At various stages in the project’s development, participation by Beau and Jeff Bridges and by Timothy Bottoms and his acting brothers was discussed.)
          Notwithstanding an unnecessarily long action scene featuring David Carradine—the cast’s biggest star at the time of filming—the stunt casting works beautifully, because the actors bring a natural rapport that suits the narrative. Oddly, however, the film rarely lingers on scenes of the gang members interacting as a group, with the obvious exception of elaborate robbery sequences. Rather, the picture mostly spotlights two-character scenes, such as long vignettes dramatizing the doomed romance between swaggering Cole Younger (David Carradine) and tough-as-nails prostitute Belle Starr (Pamela Reed). Wasn’t the point of casting so many famous brothers to create massive, Magnificent Seven-style scenes in which everyone onscreen is famous and interesting?
          In any event, The Long Riders is consistently entertaining, even though the storyline meanders in frustrating ways—lots of important things happen between scenes, and too much screen time gets chewed up by humdrum events. Directing his first Western, Hill shows a remarkable flair for the genre, using long lenses and judiciously selected slow motion to create a poetic sense of place. Whether he’s filming a weathered barn in the middle of a forest or a dusty street running through a grubby frontier town, Hill surrounds his performers with atmosphere. He also films action with his usual consummate skill, so every bullet means something and every horse fall has bone-crunching impact. (The climactic shootout in Northfield, Minnesota, is spectacular, albeit a bit overzealously edited.) Had the script been stronger, The Long Riders could have become a masterpiece instead of a solid attempt at mythmaking. Unfortunately, the screenplay is a hodgepodge setting brilliant flourishes within a shaky structure.
          James Keach, who has enjoyed a long career in front of and behind the camera without ever becoming a marquee name, developed the piece with an eye toward costarring with his more successful sibling, Stacy. (Both Keaches are credited as cowriters and coproducers.) Yet instead of following the obvious path by casting Stacy as Jesse, the brothers installed James in the leading role, presumably to create a star-making moment. This choice hurt the movie, because while Stacy’s charismatic intensity burns like a bright candle in the background, the less expressive James sets a too-reserved tone. David Carradine nearly steals the movie, since he gets most of the best lines and scenes, and some of the film’s excellent players (notably Keith Carradine and Dennis Quaid) are badly underused. Nonetheless, the many fine attributes of The Long Riders make watching the movie a rewarding experience.

The Long Riders: GROOVY

A Gunfight (1971)

          Mostly squandering a terrific premise and a unique combination of leading actors, the offbeat Western A Gunfight is worth investigating for fans of the genre and the stars, though nearly all who watch the film will end up disappointed. The movie feels like a great episode of some vintage gunslinger-themed TV show, unnecessarily stretched to feature length. Still, where else can viewers see country-music legend Johnny Cash and he-man movie icon Kirk Douglas square off against each other? Directed by the skilled Lamont Johnson, A Gunfight begins with imagery so familiar that it’s a Western cliché—the mysterious stranger rolling into town, arousing the suspicions of everyone he encounters. In this case, the stranger is onetime gunfighter Abe Cross (Cash). Despite presenting himself as a peaceable man who just wants to cash in the meager findings from his failed career as a gold prospector, Abe excites the imagination of townsfolk who are itching for the thrill of gunplay. Meanwhile, fellow ex-gunfighter Will Tenneray (Douglas) enjoys a humble existence as a permanent resident in the very same town, sharing humble lodgings with his wife, Nora (jane Alexander), and their son. Essentially a walking-and-talking tourist attraction, Will spins tale tales of his past exploits in a local bar, encouraging patrons to drink up and incur hefty tabs.
          Captivated by the notion of two famous fighters occupying the same place at the same time, townsfolk pester Abe and Will with questions of when they’ll battle each other. At first, neither man has any interest in a duel, but then Abe jokingly suggests staging a fight and selling tickets. The idea lodges itself in Will’s mind, so, eventually, Abe’s need for cash and Will’s need to reassert his manhood cause the idea to become a real plan. Understandably, this causes friction with Nora and with Abe’s newfound girlfriend, a prostitute named Jenny (Karen Black).

          Writer Harold Jack Bloom adds several unexpected wrinkles to the basic premise, displaying how bloodlust, entrepreneurship, and pathos converge in the spectacle of two men facing each other as a form of public spectacle. Alas, Bloom doesn’t conjure an entire feature’s worth of material, so the script stalls repeatedly, and Bloom’s character development is mediocre at best. The movie also suffers for the inclusion of an obtuse and underwhelming final sequence. That said, a convergence of disparate acting styles produces many vivid scenes along the way. Cash is easy and natural, bringing his signature “Man in Black” persona to the screen smoothly. Douglas does well playing the de facto villain of the piece, since his character is a little too eager to court death, and his macho energy serves the piece well. Alexander is marvelously real as always, elevating her scenes to the level of genuine drama, whereas Black is the weak link, though she’s not onscreen enough to inflict much damage. A Gunfight also benefits from the participation of Keith Carradine (whose billing suggests this movie is his debut, although he had appeared a few months earlier in Robert Altman’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller), Dana Elcar, and Raf Vallone.

A Gunfight: FUNKY

Thieves Like Us (1974)

          Watching Robert Altman’s ’70s movies, I often get the sense of a director who believed his own hype—to say nothing of a critical community and a fan base determined to attribute every move Altman made with great significance. Perhaps because his work on M*A*S*H (1970) hit such a sweet spot of political satire, supporters seemed determined to describe each subsequent Altman film as proof of his genius. For instance, Thieves Like Us has long enjoyed a solid reputation as an insightful character piece about Depression-era crooks whose lives are filled with despair, ignorance, and longing. On the plus side, the movie does indeed fit that description. On the minus side, Thieves Like Us arrived midway through a long string of similar movies, all made in the wake of Bonnie and Clyde (1967). So, while Thieves Like Us is unquestionably made with more artistry than, say, the average Roger Corman-produced Bonnie and Clyde rip-off, the subject matter and themes are so familiar that it’s mystifying why people make a fuss over Thieves Like Us. Because, quite frankly, if the most noteworthy aspects of the picture are Altman’s atmospheric direction and the spirited acting of the quirky cast, Altman did atmosphere better in other films (especially 1971’s McCabe & Mrs. Miller) and all of his pictures feature spirited acting by quirky casts. Oh, well.

          In any event, this beautifully shot but overlong and underwhelming drama follows three crooks who break out of a Mississippi prison and begin a bank-robbing spree. They are Bowie (Keith Carradine), a young romantic; Chicamaw (John Schuck), a hot-tempered thug; and T-Dub (Bert Remsen), an old coot with a big ego and a bad limp. Between jobs, the crooks try to build home lives, though everyone in the universe of these characters knows violent death is inevitable. Making the most of his time outside of jail, T-Dub inappropriately courts a much younger woman to whom he’s related. Meanwhile, Bowie romances Keechie (Shelley Duvall), the no-nonsense daughter of a fellow criminal. In his characteristically subversive fashion, Altman demonstrates only marginal interest in the actual criminality of his characters—most of the robberies happen off-camera, with Altman training his lens on cars and streets while the soundtrack features excerpts from old ’30s radio shows.

          This raises the inevitable question of why Altman bothered to make a movie about a subject he found boring, as well as the question of why it took three screenwriters (Altman, Joan Tewkesbury, Calder Willingham) to adapt Edward Anderson’s novel. And for that matter, why does a movie containing so little narrative material sprawl over 123 minutes? The answer to that last one, of course, is that Altman indulges himself on every level, letting scenes drag on endlessly and also including dozens of his signature slow zoom-in shots. That said, the performances are strange and vivid, with several Altman regulars (Carradine, Duvall, Schuck, Tom Skerritt) joined by Louise Fletcher and others. Each does something at least moderately interesting. Taken strictly on its story merits, Thieves Like Us is so threadbare that it’s best to accept the piece as an exercise in cinematic style. Whether you find the style infuriating or intoxicating will determine the sort of experience you have with Thieves Like Us.

Thieves Like Us: FUNKY

Pretty Baby (1978)

          A peculiar film that attracted a fair measure of controversy during its original release, Pretty Baby is somewhat difficult to appraise, because even though it’s beautifully crafted and thoughtfully written, it’s also inherently sleazy. After all, the storyline is about a teenaged prostitute in 1917 New Orleans, complete with nude scenes by leading lady Brooke Shields, who was 12 years old when she made the picture. It’s impossible to fully justify the eroticizing of a child by saying that it’s germane to the story, because director/co-writer Louis Malle could have exercised more restraint and conveyed the same narrative. Therefore, one must ask whether Malle photographed Shields so lasciviously in service of a high purpose (challenging the audience to regard erotic images without experiencing an erotic reaction) or in service of a low purpose (pandering to the worst kind of male gaze). It’s not as if Pretty Baby approaches pornography in any way, but the film’s content is troubling.

          Anyway, the story is primarily set in a high-end brothel run by the aging but formidable Madame Nell (Frances Fay), who treats her working girls and support staff like family members. Because every woman in the house is expected to earn her keep, however, the prostitutes’ daughters are groomed to become working girls themselves. One such mother-daughter duo is Hattie (Susan Sarandon), an experienced whore anxious to quit the game, and Violet (Shields), who has just come of age. As the story progresses, Hattie becomes engaged to a client and agrees to move with him to St. Louis, while Violet is “sold” to her first client, a middle-aged man who pays $400 for the privilege of deflowering her. Meanwhile, a lanky photographer named Bellocq (Keith Carradines) starts hanging around the brothel to take pictures of the women, and he becomes infatuated with the beguiling but petulant Violet. Thus, after Hattie leaves for St. Louis with a promise to return for Violet someday, Bellocq takes Violet into his home as a live-in lover. All of this is set against a backdrop of social turmoil, because the New Orleans of this movie is rattled by protests that lead to prostitution becoming illegal.

          Demonstrating his signatures of a curious mind and an eye for detail, Malle tells the story clinically, as if it’s a re-creation of a historical event. (In fact, the story is wholly fictional, although the milieu it depicts certainly existed.) Pretty Baby is on some levels a survival story about young women in an era when people born into shameful circumstances had few social options, so it has some resonance as a feminist parable. The movie also has copious amounts of atmosphere, thanks to glorious costuming and production design, to say nothing of subtly textured cinematography by Sven Nykvist. (His images capture everything from the deceptively elegant interiors of the brothel to the sweltering humidity of New Orleans’ tree-choked suburbs.)

          As for the acting, it’s a bit uneven. Carradine and Sarandon are strong, as always, and supporting players including Antonio Fargas and Diana Scarwid add saucy flavors to the mix. Faye’s performance is stiff, but her physical presentation is so perfect for the role that her weak acting is easily overlooked. And then there’s Shields. It’s hard to say whether she’s genuinely performing or merely affecting a precocious attitude, but the combination of her delicate features and Violet’s gritty persona is potent. Ultimately, Pretty Baby is far too serious an endeavor to dismiss, though it’s a mystery why the film was made.

Pretty Baby: GROOVY

Idaho Transfer (1973)

 

          If you didn’t know that Peter Fonda once directed a sci-fi movie, you’re not alone, because Idaho Transfer is among the most obscure items in his filmography. Released to little fanfare in 1973 and subsequently relegated to the public-domain slag heap—most available prints of the movie are cruddy second-generation copies—the movie is little more than a footnote to the Easy Rider star’s career. And while it’s true that Idaho Transfer is not the sort of movie that generates much excitement on the part of the viewer, seeing as how the film is leisurely and meditative, the picture has some meritorious elements.
          The story revolves around Karen (Kelly Bohanon), a mixed-up young woman who joins her older sister, Isa (Caroline Hildebrand), at a remote research facility run by the girls’ father, George (Ted D’Arms). George has created time-travel technology and determined that the Earth is racing toward an ecological disaster, so he’s “transferring” young people back and forth to the future. In the future, the young people are laying the foundations for a settlement that can rebuild the human race after the apocalypse. Screenwriter Thomas Matthiesen adds all sorts of inventive flourishes to this wild premise; for instance, the notion that 20th-century environmental damage is destroying the kidneys of mature adults explains why persons past the age of 25 can’t participate in the time-travel experiment. Matthiesen also flips the story on its head partway through, when several young characters get trapped in the future and must fight for survival in a realm plagued by zombie-like radiation victims.
         Although this might sound like the setup for an action story, Fonda presents Idaho Transfer as a lyrical parable. Spotlighting inexperienced amateur actors and striving for a naturalistic feel, Fonda uses a supremely restrained approach—most scenes involve characters casually discussing their extraordinary circumstances. (Composer Bruce Langhorne’s plaintive score accentuates the unimaginable tragedy of outliving one’s own species.) This laid-back approach to sci-fi doesn’t really work, per se, since the movie could have used a lot more adrenaline, but Idaho Transfer is an interesting counterpoint to the overwrought melodrama found in most movies exploring similar subject matter. After all, wouldn’t wandering mostly uninhabited wastelands be a quiet existence? Fonda’s cast generally underwhelms, though Bohanon seems comfortable onscreen and Keith Carradine pops up for a couple of scenes as a minor character. It’s easy to admire what Fonda set out to accomplish, and every so often his cerebral/spiritual take on the sci-fi genre connects in a moment of sad poetry.

Idaho Transfer: FUNKY

Old Boyfriends (1979)

Old Boyfriends is a painfully dull movie made by a number of people who should have known better. Screenwriting brothers Leonard Schrader and Paul Schrader, who are best known separately and apart for making dark dramas with complicated male protagonists, ventured way outside their comfort zones to create this unconvincing story about a troubled young woman working through an identity crisis by tracking down her exes. Talia Shire, who was at this point in her career embarking on a series of shockingly unsuccessful star vehicles in between appearing in Rocky sequels, delivers what can only be described as a non-performance. Bland to the extreme of barely registering on camera, she alternates between moping, whining, and fading into the woodwork while other actors do all the heavy lifting. Also, there’s a reason first-time director Joan Tewksbury, best known as the screenwriter of Robert Altman’s Nashville (1975), gravitated to television after this movie tanked; her inability to generate and sustain interest is stunning. Even the movie’s score is misguided, because composer David Shire contributes music so gloomy and overwrought you’d think he was generating accompaniment for a Holocaust saga. What little notoriety Old Boyfriends has probably stems from John Belushi’s appearance in a supporting role. (Shire’s character visits two exes, played by Richard Jordan and Belushi, before visiting the younger brother, played by Keith Carradine, of a third ex.) Belushi incarnates a dramatic riff on his Animal House character of an obnoxious man-child, and the meanness he channels into his performance almost brings the movie to life for a while. He also sings “Jailhouse Rock,” just a year before he performed the same song in The Blues Brothers. Alas, Shire’s vapidity and the script’s contrived rhythms prevent even the Belushi scenes from soaring. In fact, nearly the only segment of movie that really works is a fun but peripheral bit with Buck Henry as a laconic private eye.

Old Boyfriends: LAME

The Duellists (1977)

          After establishing himself as a formidable director of television commercials, Ridley Scott made the leap to feature filmmaking with this handsome adaptation of a Joseph Conrad short story titled “The Duel,” which was based on real people who existed in Napoleonic France. A small-scale drama exploring huge themes of honor, military conduct, nationalism, and personal obsession, the movie boasts gorgeous costuming and production design, impressively evoking early 19th-century Europe even though the film was made for less than $1 million. (In fact, budget constraints probably added to the verisimilitude, because Scott shot the movie on existing locations instead of sets.) From start to finish, The Duellists offers a feast of artful images, with Scott emulating the lighting style of 19th-century paintings and treating every shot as an opportunity to demonstrate his gifts for pictorial composition. Clearly, Scott’s visual acumen impressed many, since the picture won the Best Debut Film at the 1977 Cannes Film Festival and helped Scott secure his career-making job as the director of Alien (1979). Alas, for all its elegance, The Duellists is a hopelessly cold film. The motivations of the characters are dramatized well enough, but human feeling is smothered by meticulous imagery—at this point in his career, Scott seemingly lacked the skills needed to extract passion from his players.

          In his defense, the movie was badly miscast. Originally set to star Oliver Reed and Michael York, the picture instead features Keith Carradine and Harvey Keitel. Both actors are so inherently modern (and so inherently American) that they seem like they’re playing dress-up. Another problem is that the story is an intellectual exercise rather than a proper drama. When the movie begins, savage French officer Feraud (Keitel) skewers an aristocratic opponent in a duel. Another officer, d’Hubert (Carradine), is sent to arrest Feraud, but Feraud—who is obsessed with dueling—invents a slight as pretense for drawing d’Hubert into a fight. And so begins decades of on-again/off-again combat between the men, with their battles ending in draws until a peculiar resolution puts an end to their lifelong quarrel. Scott captures the surfaces of this strange story, but never the inner lives of the characters, so the question underlying the narrative—asking why one man seeks to foment conflict while the other seeks to resolve it—receives only perfunctory attention. As a result, The Duellists is quite dull and repetitive, which is a shame, since it’s easy to imagine a full-blooded version of the same material casting a powerful spell. Nonetheless, The Duellists is interesting to watch as the opening act of a great directorial career, and it holds many delights for fans of pictorial splendor.

The Duellists: FUNKY

Welcome to L.A. (1976)

          After making a pair of schlocky horror flicks, writer-director Alan Rudolph finally got to make a proper film with the help of A-list auteur Robert Altman, who served as Rudolph’s producer for Welcome to L.A. Given the “Robert Altman presents” imprimatur, however, it’s hard not to perceive Welcome to L.A. as Altman Lite, especially since Rudolph emulates his producer’s filmmaking style by presenting a loosely intertwined mosaic of cynical stories. Yet while Altman’s best ensemble movies sparkle with idiosyncratic humor, Welcome to L.A. is monotonous, a downbeat slog comprising vapid Los Angelenos doing rotten things for unknowable reasons.

          The character holding everything together is Carroll Barber (Keith Carradine), a self-absorbed rich kid who fancies himself a songwriter and who spends the movie accruing sexual conquests. Some of the uninteresting people orbiting Carroll are Ann (Sally Kellerman), a pathetic real-estate agent given to humiliating displays of unrequited affection; Karen (Geraldine Chaplin), a spacey housewife who spends her days riding around the city in taxis; Linda (Sissy Spacek), a ditzy housekeeper who works topless; Nona (Lauren Hutton), a kept woman who takes arty photographs; and Susan (Viveca Lindfors), an insufferably pretentious talent representative in love with a much-younger man. Harvey Keitel and Denver Pyle appear as well, though Rudolph is clearly much more interested in the feminine mystique than the inner lives of men.

          Rudolph structures the film like a concept album, using music to bridge vignettes, and this arty contrivance doesn’t work. Part of the problem is that singer-songwriter Richard Baskin, who provides the song score and also performs several numbers onscreen, prefers the song form of the shapeless dirge. Which, come to think of it, is not a bad way to describe Welcome to L.A. While Rudolph obviously envisioned some sort of Grand Statement about the ennui of modern city dwellers, he instead crafted an interminable recitation of trite themes. Worse, Rudolph employs juvenile flourishes such as having characters stare at the camera, as if viewers will somehow see into the characters’ souls. Sorry, but isn’t providing insight the filmmaker’s job? (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Welcome to L.A.: LAME

Nashville (1975)

          At the risk of losing my bona fides as an aficionado of ’70s cinema, I’m going to commit an act of heresy by saying that Nashville leaves me cold. I’ve sat through all 159 endless minutes of Robert Altman’s most celebrated movie twice, and both times Nashville has struck me as an overstuffed misfire that unsuccessfully tries to blend gentle observations about the country-music industry with bluntly satirical political content. Altman has said he was originally approached to make a straightforward film about country music, and that he said yes only on the condition he could spice up the storyline, but I can’t help feeling like the movie would have been better served by someone with a deeper interest in the principal subject matter.

          Obviously, the fact that Nashville is one of the most acclaimed films of its era indicates that I hold a minority opinion, and it must be said that even the film’s greatest champions single out its idiosyncrasy as a virtue. Furthermore, there’s no question that the way that Altman takes his previous experiments with roaming cameras and thickly layered soundtracks into a new realm by presenting Nashville as a mosaic of loosely connected narratives represents a cinematic breakthrough of sorts. Taken solely as a filmic experiment, the picture is bold and memorable. But for me, Nashville simply doesn’t work as a viewing experience, and I have to believe that Altman wanted his film to captivate as well as fascinate.

          I have no problem with the fact that many of Altman’s principal characters are freaks whom he presents somewhat condescendingly, including disturbed country singer Barbara Jean (Ronee Blakely); egotistical Grand Ole Opry star Haven Hamilton (Henry Gibson); heartless womanizer Tom Frank (Keith Carradine); irritating British journalist Opal (Geraldine Chaplin); pathetic would-be songstress Sueleen Gay (Gwen Welles); and so on. Altman and screenwriter Joan Tewkesbury balance the extreme characters with rational ones, such as cynical singer/adulteress Mary (Cristina Raines); long-suffering senior Mr. Green (Keenan Wynn); and sensitive singer/mom Linnea Reese (Lily Tomlin). Furthermore, Nashville is mostly a story about showbiz, a milieu to which odd people gravitate and in which odd people thrive.

          I also freely acknowledge that Nashville has many vivid scenes: the humiliating sequence in which Sueleen is forced to strip before a room of cat-calling men whom she thought wanted to hear her sing; the incisive vignette of Carradine performing his Oscar-nominated song “I’m Easy” to an audience including several of his lovers, each of whom believes the tune is about her; and so on. Plus, the acting is almost across-the-board great, with nearly every performer thriving in Altman’s liberating, naturalistic workflow. And, of course, the sheer ambition of Nashville is impressive, because it features nearly 30 major roles and a complicated, patchwork storytelling style held together by recurring tropes like a political-campaign van that rolls through Nasvhille broadcasting straight-talk stump speeches.

          My issue with the movie has less to do with the execution, which is skillful, than the intention, which seems willful. It’s as if Altman dares viewers to follow him down the rabbit hole of meandering narrative, and then flips off those same viewers by confounding them with elements that don’t belong. The ending, in particular, has always struck me as contrived and unsatisfying. Anyway, I’m just a lone voice in the wilderness, and I’m happy to accept the possibility that Nashville is simply one of those interesting films I’m doomed never to appreciate. Because, believe me, watching it a third time in order to penetrate its mysteries is not on my agenda. (Readers, feel free to tell me why you dig Nasvhille, if indeed you do, since I’d love to know what I’m apparently missing.)

Nashville: FUNKY

McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971)

          Robert Altman’s bleak Western has an enviable reputation, but its stature stems as much from the movie’s novelty as from its content. Instead of the cowboy romanticism that pervaded other revisionist Westerns of the era, McCabe offers frontier nihilism, presenting a grim view of life in a tiny settlement on the verge of becoming a town. Warren Beatty stars as John McCabe, a slick but uneducated gambler who drifts into the settlement and quickly becomes its leading citizen by opening a grungy whorehouse. Julie Christie plays Constance Miller, a crass but savvy prostitute who persuades McCabe to offer his wares in a cleaner establishment with higher prices. McCabe’s success draws the attention of unscrupulous developers who try to buy out his interests, and his nervy refusal of their offer makes him a target for hired guns. The imaginative story, based on a novel by Edmund Naughton, gives Altman a framework for his singular style of creating dense atmosphere through lived-in locations, overlapping dialogue, and peculiar people.
          The principal outdoor set is amazing, creating the illusion of a hand-wrought town that emerged organically out of snowy terrain, and the photography by Vilmos Zsigmond is justifiably celebrated. Zsigmond lit the picture to simulate available illumination sources like moonlight and candles, then “flashed” the film by exposing it to light before processing in order to create a unique washed-out quality. Many of the usual suspects from Altman movies show up in the cast, with Rene Auberjonois, Keith Carradine, Shelley Duvall, and John Schuck adding their individualistic qualities of naïve pathos, so it’s easy to lose the soft-spoken leading performances in the colorful surroundings.
          Beatty gets points for downplaying his charm and handsomeness with a disagreeable temperament and a thick beard, though much of his performance his gimmicky, like the awkward soliloquies in which he articulates his motivations. Christie is equally bold playing an overbearing opium addict. However the quasi-romance between the two characters never really clicks, and the film is unnecessarily dreary, from the various pointless murders in the storyline to the Leonard Cohen dirges on the soundtrack. So while McCabe & Mrs. Miller is gorgeously wrought and virtually unlike any previous Western, its narrative intentions are opaque.

McCabe & Mrs. Miller: GROOVY

Emperor of the North Pole (1973)

          The opening moments of this Depression-era action story set the disjointed mood. After Marty Robbins sings a corny theme song over a montage of a freight train barreling through the wilderness, the train pulls up to a water tower, and a hobo sneaks aboard one of the junctions between cars. Once the train restarts, a thuggish railroad cop known as Shack (Ernest Borgnine) spots the hobo and slams the poor schmuck in the head with a lead hammer, sending him under the train to become a mutilated corpse. Then composer Frank De Vol’s weirdly upbeat music pops in, like the whole sequence was a comedy vignette. As proven by peerless movies like The Dirty Dozen (1967), director Robert Aldrich knew his way around action sequences. However, he often erred tonally, and Emperor of the North Pole shows off the strengths and weaknesses of his filmmaking. The sequences of danger on the rails are thrilling, but the overlong movie wobbles awkwardly between lighthearted adventure and brutal suspense. After far too much preamble, the main storyline pits Shack against a veteran rail rider called “A No. 1” (Lee Marvin), who sets out to become the first hobo to ride Shack’s train without getting killed. As a result, most of the picture comprises scenes of A. No. 1 and a young cohort, Cigarette (Keith Carradine), hopping on and off the train in between violent skirmishes with Shack.
          Had the movie been whittled down to just 90-ish minutes of exciting mano-a-mano action, the flick would have been killer, but instead, viewers get meandering scenes of A No. 1 hanging out in hobo camps and harassing Baptists. Marvin is his usual cruelly cool self, all grizzled attitude and manly presence, and Carradine complements him with overbearing youthful arrogance, but it’s mostly the bad guy’s show. As played by boisterous bull Borgnine, Shack is memorable monster, defending his train with insane vigor—in one especially vivid throwaway scene, Shack glances at a coworker who just died on the job and growls the epithet “useless bastard” before getting back to his own work. Despite its flaws, Emperor of the North Pole is solid stuff for the intended audience: The Oregon location photography by old Hollywood pro Joseph Biroc is impressive, the actors do a fair number of their own stunts on moving trains, and the final confrontation between Borgnine and Marvin is frightening for its sheer malevolence.

Emperor of the North Pole: FUNKY

An Almost Perfect Affair (1979)

There’s a reason audiences don’t generally embrace movies about moviemakers, and An Almost Perfect Affair provides an almost perfect illustration of why: the lead character is a spoiled brat oblivious to the fact that he wastes once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, making him so deeply unsympathetic that the film itself is unpalatable. The oh-so-precious plot concerns Hal (Keith Carradine), an earnest young director who self-financed a movie about the execution of murderer Gary Gilmore. So before the story even gets underway, Hal seems like an elitist twit, throwing away money that would seem like a fortune to normal people on a downer subject unlikely to lure mass audiences. In the hope of selling his self-proclaimed masterpiece to a distributor, Hal hops on a plane to the Cannes Film Festival, only to have his movie seized at customs. He then meets a married Italian woman (Monica Vitti), who not only helps with his customs problems but hops into bed with him. So on top of being a foolhardy snob, Hal’s also an irresponsible cad, and yet we’re supposed to feel sympathy while he mopes around France in between trysts with Vitti. This gets at the other reason why audiences generally don’t embrace movies about moviemakers; such films wallow in the whiny angst of petulant snobs. Yawn. In this particular instance, Carradine’s down-home charm is not enough to surmount the narcissistic aspect of his character, and Vitti is yet another European starlet hampered by a thick accent and a vapidly decorative role. Venerable comedy helmer Michael Ritchie directed this flop, which commenced his fall from grace after a hot streak that included The Candidate (1972) and The Bad News Bears (1976).

An Almost Perfect Affair: LAME