The President’s Plane Is Missing (1973)

          Some movie ideas are too good to be true, in the sense that it’s difficult to imagine a fully satisfying story emerging from the idea. The made-for-TV mystery The President’s Plane Is Missing exemplifies this all-too-common circumstance. The title alone, and the premise it delivers, is tantalizing: What, exactly, would happen if Air Force One fell off radar? With today’s 24/7 digital connectivity, the premise wouldn’t work, because the whole world would know what happened almost instantly. In the early ’70s, there was a bit more leeway for stretching this scenario out to feature length, and, indeed, the storyline—extrapolated from a novel by Robert J. Serling—is fairly resourceful. Together with skillful direction by Daryl Duke and the competent work of a cast mostly comprising veteran B-listers, the crafty narrative makes The President’s Plane Is Missing relatively interesting as a far-fetched potboiler. That it ultimately devolves into a standard-issue conspiracy thriller is unsurprising, because, really, that’s one of only a handful of directions the premise could have led. To the filmmakers’ credit, they keep a few decent aces up their collective sleeve, so those who seek out this disposable picture will find the viewing experience pleasant enough.

          The film’s main characters are Vice President Kermit Madigan (Buddy Ebsen) and wire-service reporter Mark Jones (Peter Graves). When Air Force One disappears during bad weather near Winslow, Arizona, Madigan gets pulled into a constitutional crisis. He can’t assume the presidency until the death of his boss is confirmed, and yet he’s obligated to provide leadership while the president is missing. Naturally, there’s an international incident brewing, specifically a standoff with China. Hawkish advisor George Oldenburg (Rip Torn) advocates action, while doveish Secretary of State Freeman Sharkey (Raymond Massey) counsels caution. Meanwhile, Mark and his intrepid editor, Gunther Damon (Arthur Kennedy), sense that the available facts don’t tell the whole story, so they push through high-security firewalls to ferret out the truth. The picture’s balance of Oval Office intrigue and field investigation keeps things lively, and the performances are never less than professional. (Ebsen and Torn are the standouts, delivering, respectively, plainspoken integrity and ruthless ambition.) Helping things along is an energetic score by the prolific Gil Melle, featuring a Six Million Dollar Man-style combination of driving bongo beats and militaristic snare patterns.

The President’s Plane Is Missing: FUNKY

1980 Week: One-Trick Pony

          Back in his Simon & Garfunkel days, Paul Simon wrote and recorded a tune called “Fakin’ It,” which speaks to the feeling many successful people have about being imposters in their own lives. The specter of “Fakin’ It” looms large over One-Trick Pony, to date the only film Simon has written and the only one in which he’s played a starring role. Although “Fakin’ It” doesn’t appear in the movie, the notion of being a poseur pervades the movie. On a superficial level, the film bursts with authenticity, because Simon plays a singer-songwriter and performs many songs that he wrote for the movie. Yet the layers of artifice are myriad. Whereas Simon emerged from a phenomenally successful duo in order to become a phenomenally successful solo artist, his character, Jonah Levin, endures a humbler experience. A one-hit wonder for a ’60s protest song, Jonah gigs in small clubs and delivers material his label doesn’t like. Therefore the movie’s antagonistic forces include not just the crass music executives who want to inhibit Jonah’s artistry but also Jonah’s bullheaded determination to follow his muse.
          Johah’s journey is believable and realistic, but Simon wrote himself into a corner. Had he told an autobiographical story about the travails of a successful musician, critics and fans might have eviscerated him for whining about life in an ivory tower. (That fate certainly befell Neil Diamond, who made his disastrous movie debut in a remake of The Jazz Singer about two months after One-Trick Pony was released.) By tacking the other way and telling a fictional story about a struggling musician, Simon invited accusations of condescension. After all, what does a guy collecting royalties for “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover” know about privation? The damned-if-you-do/damned-if-you-don’t scenario is exacerbated by the sense of privilege innate to the film’s existence. Must be nice to write your own star vehicle and get a big-studio budget.
          If all this behind-the-scenes bitching seems tangential, there’s a reason to focus on backstory: The onscreen content of One-Trick Pony is so slight it barely exists. Jonah tours with his band, and the guys complain about rapidly dwindling paychecks. Jonah sorta-kinda makes amends with his ex-wife (Blair Brown). Jonah accepts a lucrative gig at a nostalgia show, bolstering his fear that he is, indeed, a “one-trick pony” whose best work is behind him. Jonah does some new recording with an asshole producer (played by real-life rocker Lou Reed) who tarts up Jonah’s simple songs with ghastly choirs and strings. Can Jonah reconcile his need for income with his quest for integrity?

          Some moments are quite interesting, with director Robert M. Young employing a sedate storytelling style that generates a strong sense of realism. Rip Torn does marvelous work as a callous record executive, and Simon fronts a hot band for renditions of solid tunes including “Ace in the Hole” and “God Bless the Absentee.” (The film’s best-known song, “Late in the Evening,” appears over the opening credits.) Additionally, the nostalgia-concert sequence features lively performances by the Lovin’ Spoonful and Sam & Dave, while the B-52’s show up in another scene. The problem, beyond the piffle of a storyline, is that Simon is merely adequate as an actor—everyone else is more compelling, except when Simon sings. So on nearly every level, Simon is fakin’ it: He’s not a real actor, he’s not a real screenwriter, and he’s not telling a real story. The irony is that One-Trick Pony doesn’t come across as a vanity project, but rather a sincere attempt by an important artist to explore the possibilities of a medium with which he is not familiar.

One-Trick Pony: FUNKY

Maidstone (1970)

          During his lifetime, it often seemed as if no one was as invested in burnishing Norman Mailer’s literary-lion reputation than Mailer himself. In between crafting major books and taking bold political stands, he played the provocateur with public appearances distinguished by obnoxious self-aggrandizement and sometimes shockingly offensive repudiations of others. The notion seemed to be that it was Norman’s world, and the rest of us were lucky to play supporting roles. And that’s roughly the context for Maidstone, the last in a trio of grungy independent movies that Mailer wrote and directed from 1968 to 1970. (Nearly two decades later, he made the more conventional Tough Guys Don’t Dance, one of 1987’s biggest flops.) Maidstone is a textbook example of creative indulgence, a home movie with famous participants and lofty ambitions. In its ramshackle way, the picture tells the story of Norman T. Kingsley, a controversial filmmaker who runs for U.S. president even as he casts his latest opus. Much of the picture comprises clashes between Norman (played by Mailer himself) and his tempestuous brother, Raoul (Rip Torn). Their conflict climaxes in a brawl that was reportedly improvised, with the real-life Torn smacking his frenemy’s head with a hammer and drawing blood. With all due respect, one can’t blame him for lashing out, because Mailer’s self-important bloviating is as tiresome as his shapeless filmmaking.

          Shot entirely at a posh country estate in the Northeast, the movie comprises scenes of Mailer/Kingsley boasting that he’s about to reinvent cinema (his new project is “an attack on the nature of reality”), coupled with scenes of Mailer/Kingsley cataloguing the nation’s political ills. Somehow important to expressing these themes are myriad shots of topless women, plus dull vignettes of young ladies making out with Mailer and/or Torn. In one scene, Mailer/Kingsley uses clichéd “jive” talk while communicating with a black actress; in another, several characters wander across a field while the soundtrack comprises nothing but a woman moaning in sexual pleasure. True students of Mailer’s work might find resonant tropes here, and Maidstone unquestionably captures something about the experimental artistry of its historical moment. Nonetheless, while Mailer likely thought himself the most interesting man in the world, Maidstone proves he was not.

Maidstone: LAME

Birch Interval (1976)

          A thoughtful coming-of-age story somewhat in the vein of Harper Lee’s 1960 novel To Kill a Mockingbird, Birch Interval has some emotional moments and tender performances, even if the sum effect is underwhelming thanks to an episodic storyline and a general lack of narrative focus. Set in 1947, with events happening in and around the Amish country of Pennsylvania, the movie was directed by the capable Delbert Mann, best known for helming the Oscar-winning Marty (1955), and Joanna Crawford adapted the screenplay from her own novel. Together, these two did a fair job of blending nostalgic atmosphere, the experience of young people discovering grim realities for the first time, and the sadness of watching a loved one plagued by forces beyond his control. So even if Birch Interval fails to achieve all of its goals, the fault does not stem from a lack of sincere effort.

          The story opens with young Jesse (Susan McClung) arriving for an extended visit with her beloved grandfather, Pa Strawacher (Eddie Albert)' her eccentric uncle, Thomas (Rip Torn); Thomas’ wife, Marie (Ann Wedgeworth); and Josh (Doug Fishel Jr.), Marie and Thomas' son. Problems soon become apparent. Thomas’ behavior has become increasingly bizarre, even though he’s harmless; he does things like climbing into trees when the mood strikes him. Marie has lost her patience with her husband’s peculiarities, while Pa and Josh merely fret about their inability to provide meaningful help. Woven though this domestic material is an undercooked subplot about clashes between the Amish and local authorities, who are tasked with enforcing rules requiring that Amish children attend public school. In the same way that piece could have been dropped from the picture with no ill effect, the filmmakers would have been wise to strengthen Jesse’s story. She has some colorful and even harrowing adventures, but she’s more like a witness than a protagonist.

          Albert anchors the movie well, personifying compassion and tolerance while also expressing the helpless anguish of someone facing an impossible decision—specifically, whether to have his own son committed. Yet the only reason Torn doesn’t steal the picture is that, like his character, he disappears for long periods of screen time. He’s arresting when he's present, missed when he’s not. In the crucial leading role, young McClurg does earnest work, conveying bewilderment in some scenes and a kind of righteous indignation in others.

Birch Interval: FUNKY

Crazy Joe (1974)

          Highly watchable but also underdeveloped and unoriginal, Crazy Joe is one of myriad ultraviolent gangster films released in the wake of The Godfather (1971). Starring the powerful actor Peter Boyle as real-life New York City mobster Joey Gallo, the picture was produced by trash titan Dino De Laurentiis, and it boasts not only an eclectic cast of familiar ’70s faces but also a fast-moving storyline filled with betrayals, murders, robbery, and even a spectacular suicide. Furthermore, thanks to the lively script by Lewis John Carlino, the picture has flashes of intellectualism and style. The picture doesn’t go anywhere surprising, but there’s some vivid scenery along the way.

          Viewers first meet Joe (Boyle) leading his gang of thugs through an afternoon of hanging out and an evening of committing a brazen hit in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Together, these two sequences effectively situate Joe as a character for whom death is as normal as grabbing a quick bite. Upon reporting the hit to his boss, Falco (Luther Adler), Joe is incensed to discover he won’t earn a bonus. Joe’s older brother, Richie (Rip Torn), intervenes before the argument escalates, but the seeds of a war have been planted. Thus, over the course of many years, Joe splits from Falco and later has an even bloodier battle with Falco’s successor, Vittorio (Eli Wallach). Joe’s ambition, as well as his appetite for danger, cause friction with Richie and with Joe’s wife, Anne (Paula Prentiss), even as Joe expands his operation by hiring African-American thugs controlled by Willy (Fred Williamson), whom Joe meets during a prison stint.

          Excepting the material with Prentiss’ character, which is so anemic that it should have been jettisoned entirely, most of what happens in Crazy Joe is entertaining and lurid. Joe grandstands in front of powerful men. Joe leads his crew on daring criminal adventures. Joe studies philosophy in prison, thereby arriving at high-minded justifications (“The criminal is really just another existentialist expression”). Joe reveals hidden layers of civic-mindedness and decency by saving kids from a burning building. Boyle sinks his teeth into all of this material, portraying Joe as a being of pure id, relying on bravery and instinct even though restraint and strategy would ensure a longer life.

          Yet Boyle’s performance is strangely one-dimensional, as if he can’t figure out how to decelerate for intimate scenes, and that gives the picture a certain degree of monotony. That’s why it helps to have such capable actors as Torn, Wallach, and Williamson bolstering the storytelling. Additionally, it’s fun to spot players including Charles Cioffi, Michael V. Gazzo, Hervé Villechaize, and Henry Winkler in secondary roles. As for the technical execution of the piece, which was handled by an international crew under the helm of director Carlo Lizzani, Crazy Joe is competently shot and effectively paced, allowing the focus to remain on the lively acting and the turbulent storyline.

Crazy Joe: FUNKY

Slaughter (1972) & Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off (1973)

          For various reasons, it’s not entirely accurate to call the 1972 Jim Brown movie Slaughter a blaxploitation flick. After all, ex-football player Brown was already a movie star before the blaxploitation genre emerged; he’s nearly the only actor of color in the movie; the story takes place outside the urban milieu normally associated with the genre; and certain tropes in Slaughter, such as the lead character’s sexual appeal to white women, had been present in Brown’s cinematic output since the late ’60s. That said, even if Slaughter wasn’t conceived as a blaxploitation movie, it was completed and marketed as one—the funky Billy Preston theme song and the “stickin’ it to the man” vibe of promotional materials reflect the influence of films including Shaft (1971). Anyway, if all this quibbling about categories seems tangential to the movie itself, that’s because Slaughter is so vapid that there’s not much to discuss in the way of actual content.

          Brown stars as Slaughter, an ex-Green Beret whose parents are murdered by mobsters. After killing two functionaries in reprisal, Slaughter is offered amnesty by the Feds so long as he travels to South America and takes out higher-level mobsters. That puts Slaughter into the orbit of crooks including Hoffo (Rip Torn), whose girl, Ann (Stella Stevens), is assigned to seduce Slaughter. (Torn lends a fair measure of weirdness, and Stevens mostly parades around in various states of undress.) A romantic triangle emerges, and everything leads, inevitably to a big showdown. Director Jack Starrett fills Slaughter with car chases, fistfights, shoot-outs, and nudity—Stevens’ topless appearance is probably the most memorable scene in the movie—but it’s all quite crude and routine. Brown holds the thing together, more or less, with his casual cool, and it’s a kick to hear Slaughter describe himself as “the baddest cat that ever walked the earth.” Thankfully, costar Don Gordon livens things up by providing comic relief as Slaughter’s unlikely sidekick; as is true for every other actor in the picture, however, he’s forced to make the best of clichéd dramatic situations.

          When the Slaughter character returned to movie screens a year later, in Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off, a new creative team was in place, led by director Gordon Douglas, and their mandate was clearly to make a full-on blaxploitation joint. Unlike its predecessor, Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off is filled with hookers, pimps, slang, terrible clothes, and white women who can’t get enough of Slaughter—played, once more, by Brown. Deepening its blaxploitation bona fides, the sequel even boasts a high-octane funk score by the Godfather of Soul himself, James Brown. The story is diffuse, because even though the plot kicks off with another murder/revenge scenario, the narrative gets mired in convoluted underworld machinations. Furthermore, there’s zero urgency in the story until the very end, so Slaughter spends lots of time driving around, enjoying meals, and getting laid. Plus, in lieu of the previous film’s Rip Torn, the sequel’s main villain is played by Ed McMahon, better known as Johnny Carson’s second banana. McMahon does competent work, but he hardly makes a formidable opponent for “the baddest cat that ever walked the earth” (a line reprised in the sequel). Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off also loses points for a narrative predicated on wildly incompetent assassins, seeing as how the lead character survives a crazy number of attempts on his life. Neither of the Slaughter films is genuinely awful, but neither of them is anything special, either.

Slaughter: FUNKY

Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off: FUNKY

Payday (1973)

          Payday takes no prisoners. Treating the excesses of one fictional country singer’s life as a symbol for the extremes of anyone who believes his or her own hype, this little-seen drama stars Rip Torn as Maury Dann, a monstrous megalomaniac who mows down everyone who stands between him and glory or self-destruction, whichever comes first. The irony that Dann succeeds in the folksy realm of country music is utilized for maximum effect, as are subtle parallels to real-life country singers whose substance-abuse issues were common knowledge. (The movie implies a tip of the Stetson to George Jones’s boozing, for instance, although Dann doesn’t come across like a direct stand-in for any particular individual.) Zooming out from the film’s perspective on country music specifically, the choice of music in general makes all sorts of sense, not only because popular entertainers get cut more slack for bad behavior than most mere mortals, but because the tension between fans and the lucky people whom fans elevate to star status is so rich. After all, the very people whom Dann treats so badly—the compliant groupies who buy his music, the underappreciated sidemen who make his shows happen, and so on—are the source of the power that he abuses.

          On one level, Payday is a simple story about a man who damns himself by biting the hand that feeds, but on a deeper level, it’s about the fine line between ambition and avarice, because the same single-mindedness that fuels Dann’s more-is-more rampaging is, presumably, what pushed him through obstacles and rejections on the way to success.

          Torn, whose real-life troubles prove he grasps the concept of personal demons all too well, gives one of the finest—and most frightening—performances of his career, his energy level keyed up to superhuman levels from the first frame to the last. He plays Dann as a sort of tornado whipping through bars, concert halls and studios, leaving bruised and confused victims in his wake. (The title refers to Dann’s ferocious pursuit of the bottom line, because he uses everyone he meets to further his own success, no matter what shape they’re in when he’s done.) Director Daryl Duke, whose career mostly comprises middling TV projects and one other fine ’70s movie (the twisty 1978 crime thriller The Silent Partner) films Payday unobtrusively, letting Torn chew through the pages of Don Carpenter’s unflinching script at a rapid pace. Plus, intentionally or not, the effect of Maury Dann living on a plane above everyone else is compounded by the use of a supporting cast featuring unfamiliar actors; it’s as if Torn’s characterization consumes so much oxygen that no other name-brand actor would be able to breathe in the same space.

          That said, minor characters in Payday serve their functions well, conveying a believable vision of Nashville and the surrounding area as an industry town that’s as reliant on working stiffs as it is on visionaries. (The filmmakers also illustrate virtually every imaginable dimension of the lead character, showing his relationships with friends, foes, family and everyone in between.) Payday is a ’70s movie to its core, dark and probing and unglamorous, so while it cannot be described as a fun movie to watch, it’s a prime example of the type of nervy character study that give the boldest ’70s cinema its unique flavor.

Payday: GROOVY

The Seduction of Joe Tynan (1979)

          Only a curmudgeon could truly dislike Alan Alda’s work. A smooth actor equally adept at comedy and drama, a deft writer with compassionate narrative impulses, and a sensitive observer of the human condition, he easily qualifies for national-treasure status. That said, it’s easy to find fault with Alda’s handful of original screenplays, the first of which was this intelligent but timid political drama. Whereas Alda found a perfect vessel for his literary gifts when penning episodes of M*A*S*H, following the genius framework set by series developer Larry Gelbart, Alda’s big-screen stories succumb to excessive tendencies: He undercuts serious tales by going for jokes at the wrong times, and he diminishes credibility by making every character likeable. Peculiar as it may sound, Alda’s desire to please his audience is his biggest impediment as a movie storyteller.

          All of which is context for The Seduction of Joe Tynan, an admirable but frustrating movie. Alda stars as Tynan, a U.S. senator from New York seemingly on a path to the White House. Over the course of the movie, Tynan grows estranged from his wife, emotionally troubled Ellie (Barbara Harris); pursues a reckless affair with Southern political operative Karen (Meryl Streep); and tackles a headline-generating cause that alienates him from an aging mentor, Sen. Birney (Melvyn Douglas). The gist, obviously, is that one can’t make ethical compromises without becoming compromised on other levels, and that balancing personal responsibility with political ambition is a risky endeavor. In fact, the whole movie is as bluntly literal as the title. Consider this speech by one of Joe’s fellow senators, Edward Anderson (Maurice Copeland): “After a while, you start to forget what you’re here for. And then getting clout and keeping it is all there is. You start lying to your constituents, your colleagues, to everybody. And you forget what you thought you cared most about in life.” (Cut to a meaningful shot of Tynan looking out a window, because he’s, y’know, thinkin’ about stuff.) Given such clunky moralizing, The Seduction of Joe Tynan fails as a political story even though it’s pretty good as a character piece.

          Director Jerry Schatzberg—the former photographer whose ’70s output includes sensitive art pieces like 1973’s Scarecrow—contributes proficient but impersonal work, delivering Alda’s vision to the screen without the counterpoint of an additional artistic perspective. In the lead role, Alda wisely plays against his decent-guy persona by engaging in questionable behavior, while Streep imbues her underwritten part with engaging intelligence and luminous sexuality. Yet it’s the second-string supporting actors—Douglas, Harris, and Rip Torn—who get the most interesting scenes. Douglas essays his character’s slide into senility with grace and pathos, Harris poignantly captures a political wife’s ambivalence, and Torn energizes the movie with his character’s boisterous vulgarity. Thanks to qualities like these strong performances, The Seduction of Joe Tynan is worthwhile even though it never rises above mediocrity. (Available as part of the Universal Vault Series on Amazon.com)

The Seduction of Joe Tynan: FUNKY

The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976)

          The Man Who Fell to Earth is arguably the climax of the downbeat sci-fi cycle that began with Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), because a year after The Man Who Fell to Earth was released, George Lucas’ Star Wars steered the sci-fi genre back toward lighthearted escapism. Every frame of The Man Who Fell to Earth is depressing and weird, and the film presents a brutally nihilistic statement about the depravity of mankind: Over the course of the picture, an alien filled with noble purpose gets sidetracked by the earthly pleasures of alcohol, sex, and television, eventually becoming a desiccated shell of his former self and the cause of his home planet’s likely ruination. Nicholas Roeg, the cinematographer-turned-filmmaker who spent the first decade of his directorial career exploring bizarre intersections between alienation and carnal desire, takes The Man Who Fell to Earth into some very strange places via surrealistic images and sounds. Furthermore, singer David Bowie, who was cast in the leading role at the apex of his androgynous rock-god reign, delivers a performance so detached that he really does seem like a visitor from another planet.
          Working with screenwriter Paul Mayersberg, Roeg adapted this picture from a 1963 novel by Walter Tevis, best known for telling the story of fictional pool player “Fast” Eddie Felson in his novels The Hustler (1959) and The Color of Money (1984)—go figure. The story concerns one Thomas Jerome Newton (Bowie), an alien who travels to Earth because his own planet is suffering a drought. With an eye toward buying materials for a spaceship that can transport water back to his world, Thomas uses his space-age knowledge to create inventions that make him super-wealthy. However, he gets distracted when he meets a small-town hotel employee named Mary-Lou (Candy Clark), and they embark on a romantic relationship. Soon, Thomas becomes mired in drinking and screwing, so he doesn’t notice that one of his underlings, Dr. Nathan Bryce (Rip Torn), has discovered Thomas’ true identity. Nathan tells the government about Thomas just before Thomas tries to launch his spaceship, so government agents nab Thomas and secure him in a prison cell for experimentation and interrogation. That’s when the story gets really twisted, but the bummer events in the second half of the picture shouldn’t be spoiled.

          Aside from the inherently odd story and Bowie’s ethereal acting (the singer has acknowledged he was coked out of his mind during the whole production), what makes The Man Who Fell to Earth so peculiar is Roeg’s avoidance of conventional storytelling tools. Roeg obscures time relationships between scenes, so we experience the movie in as much of a blur as the characters; additionally, Roeg leaves several major story points unexplained. In fact, the very texture of the picture adds to this disorienting effect. Roeg uses heavy filters and other forms of visual distortion to heighten the strangeness of scenes, and jumpy editing creates an odd rhythm in which, say, a straightforward dialogue exchange might be juxtaposed with a phantasmagoric montage. Roeg also fills the screen with nudity and raw sex scenes, frequently jolting viewers into did-I-just-see-that reactions. Whether all of this gimmickry accentuates the story’s themes—or whether it’s all just impossibly pretentious—is a call for each individual viewer to make. What’s not open to debate is that The Man Who Fell to Earth is unlike any other sci-fi picture of the same era.

The Man Who Fell to Earth: FREAKY

The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover (1977)

          The most startling thing about The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover is that it’s not particularly startling. Presented as an exposé of the legendary lawman who led the FBI from 1935 to 1972, writer-producer-director Larry Cohen’s docudrama compiles a portrait that’s equal parts gossip and history, but never quite commits to a viewpoint. For instance, the movie dramatizes the rumors that Hoover was gay—an explosive revelation if true, given the G-Man’s willingness to blackmail political figures with evidence of their sexual habits—but Cohen never takes a firm position on whether Hoover and his longtime assistant, Clyde Tolson, were lovers, as many suspected. Similarly, Cohen shows that Hoover was merciless in his crusade against communists, to the point of obsessive paranoia, but Cohen also presents giants including Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. as being equally devious. This makes Hoover seem less unique and therefore less worthy of examination. Furthermore, Cohen’s biggest narrative leap—depicting Hoover’s alleged use of material in his “secret files” for blackmail purposes—merely rehashes familiar facts such as the Kennedy family’s association with mobster Sam Giancana. Sure, it took balls for Cohen to make this movie just five years after Hoover’s death, but the lack of a strong perspective makes The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover muddled, even though it’s brisk and entertaining.
          While Cohen’s filmmaking is as sloppy as ever, that’s all to the good in this context; shaky cinematography and ugly lighting create a sense of footage captured on the fly, suiting the spy-game milieu. However, iffy performances dull the intended impact. Star Broderick Crawford, a 1949 Oscar winner for All the King’s Men, was far from his prime when he made this picture. Large and unhealthy-looking, he sometimes seems like he’s being filmed during a rehearsal, because his acting is weirdly disconnected. (That said, he springs to life during a tense scene with fellow veteran Celeste Holm, whose character attempts to seduce Hoover.) Thanks to the film’s choppy editing, tracking the arcs of supporting characters is challenging—people are introduced poorly and then disappear for long stretches—but a couple of actors figure prominently. Dan Dailey is somewhat bland as Tolson, but Michael Parks delivers a colorful turn as Bobby Kennedy, and Rip Torn lends cynical edge as a G-Man who tangles with Hoover. (Others in the large cast include Howard Da Silva, José Ferrer, John Marley, and Lloyd Nolan.) Ultimately, The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover is middling, but it’s noteworthy as the most serious-minded entry in Cohen’s filmography, which is dominated by cheerfully trashy drive-in fare. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover: FUNKY

Tropic of Cancer (1970)

          Tropic of Cancer is a nasty barrage of sex, scheming, and vulgarity, leavened with a strain of ironic literary observation. However, this combination of elements should come as no surprise given the subject material: Tropic of Cancer is the only feature-length adaptation of notorious American writer Henry Miller’s work. The sex-crazed Miller’s adventures as an expat living in France also inspired the 1990 biopic Henry & June—yet while the latter film was a straightforward narrative infused with sophisticated erotica, Tropic of Cancer is a grungy experimental film punctuated by seedy simulated sex. In Tropic of Cancer, nearly every physical encounter has a grim punchline, whether it’s the revelation that one of the partners has VD or a glimpse of one partner stealing money from the other.

          Our guide through these vignettes is Henry Miller (Rip Torn), a perpetually impoverished writer who occasionally takes day jobs doing things like editing copy for an English-language newspaper, but mostly subsists on favors from friends. A hobo without a permanent address, he crashes on couches, takes hotel rooms whenever he has money in his pocket, and persuades fellow Americans to feed him even though he offers virtually no consideration in return. In addition to leeching off everyone he knows, Henry spends every waking moment trying to get laid, indiscriminately sleeping with prostitutes, strangers, and the wives of his friends.

          Director Joseph Strick presents these events in fragmented little bursts, loosely connected by voiceover featuring Torn reading from Miller’s books. (Unfortunately, most of the voiceover comprises crudely rhapsodic descriptions of female sex organs.) Parisian location photography adds authenticity, although it’s peculiar that Strick shot the picture with modern clothing (circa 1970) instead of matching the 1930s era during which most of Miller’s real-life Gallic exploits took place.

          Muddying the waters further is Torn’s casting and characterization. Constantly unkempt, flashing a devil’s smile full of yellow teeth, and relentless about seeking his own pleasures no matter the cost to others, Torn’s version of Miller is an irredeemable cretin, so it’s hard to know what reaction Strick hoped to elicit: Was the idea to document the extremes of a rare man, or to incarnate Miller’s ideas about the “honesty” one finds in embracing animal instincts?

          The picture never speaks clearly enough to make a strong statement one way or another, and Strick’s choice to fill the screen with naked women undercuts whatever artistic aspirations might be present—Tropic of Cancer ends up feeling like a pretentious nudie flick. Still, for adventurous viewers, Tropic of Cancer may be worth exploring for hidden virtues. Furthermore, the presence of an uncredited Ellen Burstyn in the movie provides some interest; the future Oscar winner appears briefly, mostly without clothing, as Henry’s quasi-estranged wife.

Tropic of Cancer: FREAKY

Heartland (1979)

          So naturalistic that it almost feels like a documentary, Heartland exemplifies a certain speciality of American independent cinema, the rural survival story. Tackling subject matter far too educational in nature for treatment in a Hollywood production, the picture tells the simple tale of a woman who moves to a small ranch in the American frontier, circa 1909, to serve as the live-in housekeeper for the ornery proprietor of a one-man ranching operation. As years pass, the duo’s pragmatic arrangement grows into something like a romantic bond, but their union is tested by challenges including bitter winters, financial problems, livestock deaths, and a troubled pregnancy. All of this plays out in crisp dramatic vignettes set almost exclusively on the ranch, which means that the picture’s visuals are limited to stark panoramic shots of empty fields and claustrophobic interior scenes taking place in the rancher’s cabin.

          Accordingly, the picture’s watchability rises and falls on its acting and its attention to detail, and both are excellent. Conchata Ferrell, who later achieved notoriety as the sarcastic housekeeper on the sitcom Two & a Half Men, stars in Heartland, playing one of her only leading roles. Leavening her signature sass with a layer of historically accurate repression, she’s independent and tough without seeming like a superwoman, which makes the grit her character shows in horrific circumstances all the more impressive. Ferrell’s costar is the priceless Rip Torn, giving one of his most restrained performances; although the violence that often punctuates his acting is visible under the skin of his character, Torn comes across as a man toughened by necessity, not personal inclination. Barry Primus appears fleetingly, and with much soft-spoken charm, as a ranch hand occasionally in Torn’s employ.

          The script, which reflects meticulous research more strongly than creative dramaturgy, was based on a series of letters written by the real-life frontier woman whose experiences inspired the story, and as such the picture consistently opts for melancholy realism over happy contrivance. Heartland is like a textbook chapter come to life, painstakingly illustrating what a single woman’s lot was like at a particular moment in history. The approach speaks well of the filmmakers’ intentions but makes Heartland feel slow for viewers accustomed to flashier storytelling—as helmed by journeyman director Richard Pearce, the picture gritty and substantial almost to a fault. Ultimately, however, Heartland’s integrity raises it almost above reproach, even though it’s more edifying than entertaining.

Heartland: GROOVY