The Todd Killings (1971)

          Even though it’s plagued by bumpy storytelling and weakened by an unsuccessful attempt at probing the protagonist’s complex psychology, there’s much to admire about The Todd Killings. Writer-director Barry Shear based his script upon the exploits of Charles Schmid, a real-life criminal who developed a following of high-school students in mid-’60s Arizona and enlisted their aid while covering up murders. Discarding many weird details from the real case and inserting a few new wrinkles, Schear morphed Schmid into the fictional character Skipper Todd, played with great conviction by Robert F. Lyons. Handsome and muscular, he uses his sexual power over adolescent women to make them do outrageous things, meanwhile luring adolescent boys into his thrall by offering favors from compliant females. Wearing his groovy go-go clothes and zipping around town in dune buggy, he comes across like a demonic rock star, so Shear’s movie achieves its greatest efficacy by dramatizing the way a sociopath aggregates followers. The movie also benefits from marvelous cinematography and vivid supporting performances.

          Things get off to an intriguing but slightly confusing start with an intercut sequence, the most dynamic element of which involves Skipper and his cronies burying a body in a riverbed and then fleeing the scene. Thereafter, most of the movie unfolds in a linear fashion, presenting Skipper’s bizarre lifestyle through the eyes of his latest acolyte, Billy Roy (Richard Thomas). Recently returned from military service, the naïve and shy Billy Roy marvels at Skipper’s ability to control women, even though Skipper devotes much of his energy to breaking down the resistance of Roberta (Belinda Montgomery), a high-school beauty reluctant to surrender to virginity. Shear intertwines these events with flash-forwards to Skipper’s interrogation by police, because it emerges that one of Skipper’s cronies gave him up to authorities after the guilt of witnessing murders became intolerable. (As for the killings, they’re handled with the expected levels of brutality, though Shear aims for psychological terror instead of gore.) Perhaps the film’s most provocative trope is Skipper’s unusual relationship with his mother (Barbara Bel Geddes); because she operates a convalescent home for seniors, her lifestyle epitomizes the stagnation against which Skipper rebels.

          Had Shear retained the real names of those involved with Schmid’s crime spree and truly penetrated the protagonist’s psyche, The Todd Killings could have become a true-crime classic. The acting is consistently good, and that photography—by Harold E. Stine—builds on the familiar Conrad L. Hall technique of using blurred foregrounds and deep focus to surround actors in metaphorically rich atmosphere. Nearly every artistic and technical aspect of The Todd Killings is exemplary, so the real shortfall happens in the realm of storytelling. Nonetheless, the best elements of The Todd Killings are terrific, and the movie’s assortment of hip ’60s fashion and household objects is wild to behold.

The Todd Killings: FUNKY

Shoot Out (1971)

If the idea of a cuddly revenge picture strikes your fancy, then the middling Western thriller Shoot Out is for you. The picture starts out well enough, with brooding bank robber Clay Lomax (Gregory Peck) getting released from jail and setting out to find his former partner, Sam Foley (James Gregory), a double-crossin’ varmint who’s got a date with the business end of Clay’s six-shooter. Aware that Clay is out for blood, Sam hires a group of thugs to keep tabs on Clay, but misjudges the character of the gang’s leader, Bobby Jay Jones (Robert F. Lyons). Turns out Bobby Jay’s a psycho looking for trouble, so when Bobby Jay starts endangering innocent people, Clay decides to take care of Bobby Jay before his showdown with Sam. So far, so good. But then the real plot kicks in: A former lover of Clay’s saddles him with a young girl who may or may not be his daughter, forcing Clay to juggle caregiving and gunplay. Whereas the logical narrative choice would’ve been to portray Clay as a reluctant father figure who can’t fathom how to keep a child amused, the filmmakers instead depict Clay as a natural parent who looks after the girl’s diet and hygiene, and even knows silly games and stories with which to keep her amused. This is the deadly criminal at the center of our story? Illogically softening Clay’s characterization drains nearly all the tension from Shoot Out, transforming the film from a guns-a-blazin’ oater to a softhearted family picture. To confuse matters further, Shoot Out returns to its original dark-and-nasty vibe toward the end of the story, because Bobby Jay goes on a killing spree that sets Clay’s blood a-boilin’. The climax of the picture is actually quite exciting, but the sudden flurry of high-stakes action seems to drift in from another movie. Still, Peck fans might dig the way Shoot Out bridges the actor’s softer side and the tough image he assumed in latter-day films, and the movie is assembled with utmost efficiency by veteran helmer Henry Hathaway. Shoot Out is watchable, but beware the gooey center. (Available as part of the Universal Vault Series on Amazon.com)

Shoot Out: FUNKY

Dealing: Or the Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues (1972)

          With its focus on low-level drug peddlers and “tune in, turn on, drop out” college culture, the lengthily titled Dealing: Or the Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues could easily have been made in the mid-’60s instead of the early ’70s, and the picture’s approach to characterization is so Spartan that the people in the movie feel like counterculture-era abstractions instead of flesh-and-blood individuals. That’s not a bad thing, however, since Dealing is like an injection of pure period vibe, from the pervasive theme of lawlessness to the happenin’ lingo to the potent male fantasy of a with-it hippie chick who grooves on the hero’s scene.

          Dealing isn’t deep or provocative, and it isn’t really about anything except the vague implications of a contraband-fueled adventure in the anything-goes ’70s, but it’s atmospheric, attractively shot, and loaded with far-out tunes (including drop-the-needle pop cuts and an eclectic score by Michael Small). Stripped of any aspirations to redeeming social value, the movie is like a sleek catalog of vintage textures.

          The story was adapted from a novel by “Michael Douglas,” the shared pseudonym for bestselling author Michael Crichton and his brother, Douglas Crichton. Peter (Robert F. Lyons) is a directionless Harvard law student not particularly interested in his studies. He regularly makes cross-country trips to fetch dope for his pal John (John Lithgow), an urbane drama teacher/dealer with a talent for coldly exploiting young people. In Berkeley for a connection, Peter meets pretty druggie Susan (Barbara Hershey), and before long, they get together in a recording studio, bonding over a few lines of coke and a bit of the old in-out. (He playfully introduces himself to Susan as “Lucifer,” having rocked out to the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” on his Buck Rogers-looking stereo headset earlier in the movie.)

          Eventually, once Peter makes his way back to Boston, he persuades John to hire Susan for a run so she can join her new lover on the East Coast. The plan goes awry when Susan gets busted at Logan Airport by a corrupt detective, Murphy (Charles Durning), who swipes half her cargo. Realizing the cop stole drugs, John and Peter try to hustle Murphy in order to get Susan released, and this endeavor soon evolves into full-on intrigue: After John bails when the danger level gets too high, Peter finds himself stuck between corrupt cops and vengeful drug dealers in a violent showdown. The movie ambles through mellow situations until Peter’s predicament percolates, at which point a fair amount of suspense develops, and the big finish in a snow-covered nature preserve is exciting and weird.

          Although journeyman TV actor Lyons is a weak link, the stiffness of his performance is partially negated by the fact that his character is a cipher, and the rest of the cast is strong. Hershey comes across well in a mostly ornamental role; Durning is appropriately insidious; and Lithgow’s amusing characterization runs the gamut from perverse to pathetic. Adding considerably to the movie’s offbeat appeal is the complete absence of sympathetic characters—Peter and Susan are more appealing than the killers and sleazebags they encounter, but they’re still losers, which makes them unique choices to occupy the romantic center of a Hollywood movie. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Dealing: Or the Berkeley-to-Boston Forty-Brick Lost-Bag Blues: GROOVY