1980 Week: Little Darlings

          Despite being utterly conventional in terms of storytelling and technical execution, Little Darlings is unusual because it presents a sensationalistic premise without lapsing into vulgarity. Yet the film cannot be described as sophisticated, because the characterizations are one-dimensional and the picture often gets mired in nonsense along the lines of uninspired physical comedy. So perhaps the best way to describe Little Darlings is to say that it’s not nearly as offensive as it could have been, given the confluence of juvenile actors and salacious subject matter. Set at a typical American summer camp for girls, the film revolves around the tense relationship between Angel (Kristy McNichol), the chain-smoking tomboy daughter of a promiscuous single mother, and Ferris (Tatum O’Neal), the naïve and pretentious daughter of a wealthy couple undergoing a separation as a prelude to divorce. The instant the young ladies meet each other on the bus headed for camp, they hate each other. Upon their arrival in the woods, both girls inadvertently reveal to bitchy beauty Cinder (Krista Errickson) that they’re virgins, so Cinder takes bets on whether Angel or Ferris will be the first to have sex over the course of the summer.

          Angel happens upon Randy (Matt Dillon), a tough kid attending a nearby boy’s camp, while Ferris sets her sights on Gary (Armand Assante), a grown-up counselor at the girls’ camp. The picture unfolds in a lighthearted manner, with brightly lit scenes set to a thumping pop soundtrack featuring tunes by Blondie and the Cars (among other Top 40 acts of the era) until the climactic scene when one of the girls consummates her flirtation with the man she’s chosen. That sequence is handled with restraint and even a kind of unvarnished reverence, thereby elevating the rest of the otherwise pedestrian movie by association. McNichol, who gained fame on the ’70s TV series Family, and O’Neal, who earned an Oscar for her screen debut in Paper Moon (1973), work on different levels—McNichols’ performance is raw and vulnerable, whereas O’Neal plays a amiable caricature. Assante mostly seems as if he’s struggling to avoid looking embarrassed, and Dillon exhibits the brooding quality that made him a star just a few years later, complementing the fine work he does in another 1980 release, My Bodyguard.

Little Darlings: FUNKY

Paper Moon (1973)

          When movie stars invite their children to act with them, the results usually range from embarrassing to forgettable—but every so often, something like Paper Moon happens. Featuring a spectacular debut performance by preteen Tatum O’Neal and a charmingly gruff star turn by her famous father, Ryan O’Neal, the movie both satisfies and undercuts audience expectations of what might occur when real-life relatives perform together onscreen. The movie has heart, but more importantly, it has edge—since many of the best scenes in Paper Moon feature the O’Neals sparring with each other, it’s impossible to mistake the picture for a softhearted love letter from a father to a daughter. Somehow, producer-director Peter Bogdanovich sensed a vein of natural conflict in the dynamic between the O’Neals, and then the filmmaker channeled that conflict into the fictional relationship of a 1930s con man and a girl who may or may not be his daughter.

          Better still, Bogdanovich ensured that the sparks flying between the O’Neals were only part of the movie’s appeal. In addition to the memorable father-daughter acting, Paper Moon features crisp storytelling, sparkling dialogue, stunning black-and-white cinematography, and vivacious supporting performances. It’s a near-masterpiece that only happens to contain effective stunt casting.

          Masterfully adapted by Alvin Sargent from a novel by Joe David Brown, Paper Moon takes place during the Depression, hence Bogdanovich’s choice to present the story with monochromatic visuals that evoke the photography of the Depression era. Flimflam artist Moses Pray (Ryan O’Neal) attends the funeral of a former lover, where he meets scrappy nine-year-old Addie Loggins (Tatum O’Neal), whom he realizes might be his daughter. Through delightfully contrived circumstances—the plot comes together with Swiss-watch precision that echoes Moses’ elaborate scams—Addie pressures Moses into taking her along for a lengthy auto journey. A quick study, Addie finds a role for herself in Moses’ principal scheme of selling personalized Bibles to the widows of recently deceased men, so the main characters’ natural instinct for bonding gets sublimated into the formation of a criminal enterprise.

          Bogdanovich milks this perverse premise for all it’s worth, opting for the rich drama of betrayals, disappointments, and double-crosses instead of trying for easy sentimentality. Yet woven into nearly every scene of the movie is deftly crafted humor, an element maximized by the impeccable comic timing of Bogdanovich’s actors. In fact, one of the juiciest subplots involves Moses’ relationship with a woman of ill repute named Trixie Delight, played by the magnificent comedienne Madeline Kahn, who made her big-screen debut in Bogdanovich’s hit farce What’s Up Doc? (1972). Demonstrating the skill of the film’s narrative construction, the speed with which Moses throws over Addie in order to court Trixie reveals the limitations of Moses’ integrity and the sad fate awaiting Addie unless Moses grows a conscience.

          While sensitive character work is ultimately what makes Paper Moon meaningful, the style is what makes the movie sing. Working with cinematographer Lászlo Kovács, Bogdanovich creates intimate textures throughout Paper Moon, especially during long takes that the director fills with rat-a-tat dialogue. Like the best of Bogdanovich’s early movies, Paper Moon feels handcrafted, with equal care given to characterization, emotion, mood, pace, and tone.

          As such, if there’s a minor complaint that one could make about Paper Moon, it’s that Bogdanovich seems just as concerned with announcing his incandescent talent as he is in telling the story. But then again, since Paper Moon was made when the very gifted director was at the height of his powers, it’s hard to blame him for showboating. And since the film earned an Academy Award for Tatum O’Neal (making her the youngest-ever winner of a competitive acting Oscar), as well as a nomination for screenwriter Sargent, the director’s grandstanding clearly did not obscure the remarkable contributions of his collaborators.

Paper Moon: RIGHT ON

International Velvet (1978)

          International Velvet is an oddity. The picture is an elaborate sequel to National Velvet (1944), the movie that transformed 12-year-old Elizabeth Taylor into a movie star—she played Velvet Brown, a precocious equestrian who wins a major contest, becoming a heroine in her native England, only to be disqualified due to her age. Produced 34 years later, without Taylor reprising her role, International Velvet dramatizes a new adventure in Velvet’s life. Now settled into quiet, rural domesticity with her husband, successful author John Seaton (Christopher Plummer), Velvet (Nanette Newman) becomes the guardian of her recently orphaned niece, Sarah Brown (Tatum O’Neal). After some initial trouble adjusting to life in England, Sarah follows in her aunt’s footsteps by becoming a world-class rider, entering the Olympics atop the son of the horse Velvet rode in the first picture.

          Sequels arriving decades after their predecessors rarely work, and the absence of Taylor in the Velvet role makes International Velvet feel particularly unnecessary. Therefore, since the movie is primarily a vehicle for O’Neal—who, by the late ’70s, was a top child star with an Oscar to her credit—wouldn’t it have made more sense to simply remake the original film instead of awkwardly contriving a follow-up? Alas, one can only guess at the machinations of producer/director/co-writer Bryan Forbes, whose eclectic career includes several intelligent but unremarkable movies. And, unfortunately for Forbes, the biggest draw of International Velvet—O’Neal’s performance—is a letdown. Caught at an awkward age, O’Neal is an attractive teenager but neither a fascinating child nor a fully formed adult, and her acting is so mannered that she’s outclassed by her costars.

          In the early scenes, depicting Sarah’s integration into her aunt’s country estate, Plummer’s suave demeanor and wry line deliveries dominate. Later, when Sarah joins the British Olympic team, Anthony Hopkins takes over the movie with his funny turn as a witheringly sarcastic coach. (As for Newman, the director’s real-life spouse, she’s elegant but forgettable.) Forbes mounts an impressive production, with extensive location photography, glamorous lighting, and vivid sports sequences. Additionally, some of his dialogue is quite tasty, particularly the bitchy monologues issued by Hopkins. However, the lack of real suspense in the movie, save for a harrowing plane trip during which a horse’s life is endangered, makes International Velvet feel as deep as a postcard.

International Velvet: FUNKY

The Bad News Bears (1976) & The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training (1977) & The Bad News Bears Go to Japan (1978)

          Foul-mouthed and politically incorrect, The Bad News Bears presents a startlingly funny vision of childhood. In fact, it would be nearly impossible to include some of the movie’s edgier jokes in a contemporary film, and that’s a shame—screenwriter Bill Lancaster and director Michael Ritchie lend believable spark to their story by showing characters trading cruel epithets about disability and race. This warts-and-all approach elevates The Bad News Bears from being just another underdog tale in the classic sports-movie tradition; the movie is also a wicked look at growing up the hard way.

          The main adult character is Morris Buttermaker (Walter Matthau), a former minor-league player now gone to seed—he’s a rumpled drunk who works as a pool cleaner in Southern California. Buttermaker gets recruited to coach a newly formed Little League team, the Bears, which comprises rejects from other squads: bad seeds, minorities, nerds, runts, slobs. A paragon of insensitivity, Buttermaker is the worst possible person to corral this gang, since he’s as appalled by these losers as everyone else. To give the team a remote chance of success, Buttermaker enlists a pair of ringers.

          First up is 12-year-old pitcher Amanda Whurlizer (Tatum O’Neal), whose mother used to date Buttermaker. She’s a wise-beyond-her-years handful, demanding endless financial perks in exchange for participating. Next, Buttermaker woos Kelly Leak (Jackie Earle Haley), a local dropout who zooms around town on a Harley and makes a sketchy living with small-time scams. Watching the younger kids get schooled by the self-serving Amanda and Kelly is hilarious, especially since Buttermaker observes the whole pathetic spectacle with a mix of cynical detachment and whatever-works ruthlessness.

          The contrivance, of course, is that Buttermaker falls in love with the team because of how hard the kids try to please him, but Matthau’s unsentimental performance sells the illusion nicely. Better still, Ritchie does an amazing job with the ballpark scenes, using the strains of Bizet’s “Carmen” as a leitmotif for the Bears’ outfield ineptitude; these scenes are sly ballets of expertly staged physical comedy. Ritchie also pays careful attention to vignettes taking place off the field, ensuring that even minor characters are sketched beautifully.

          It helps a great deal that O’Neal was in the midst of her hot streak of precocious performances, and that Haley, in his breakout role, presented a memorable mixture of bravado and insecurity. Even the movie’s main villain, the super-competitive coach (Vic Morrow) of an opposing team, comes across as a fully realized individual, since the dynamic he shares with his long-suffering son speaks to the movie’s theme of what happens when winning eclipses other priorities.

          Predictably, the departure of key players behind and in front of the camera led to diminishing returns for the movie’s first sequel, The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training. Written by Paul Brickman (who later wrote and directed Risky Business), Breaking Training is enervated and overly sweet but basically palatable. The story focuses on Kelly (still played by Haley) and his estranged dad, Mike (William Devane), who takes over as the Bears’ coach. Mike tries to rally the team for a big exhibition game at the Houston Astrodome, and a combination of formulaic plot elements and unwelcome sentimentality makes Breaking Training feel second-rate. Wasn’t eschewing the cheap emotionalism of traditional sports movies the point of the original film? Still, the interplay between the misfit kids, most of whom are played by the same actors, remains enjoyable, so group scenes are fun to watch.

          In fact, Breaking Training is a near-masterpiece compared to the final theatrical film of the original series, The Bad News Bears Go to Japan. Although original screenwriter Bill Lancaster returned for this entry, the gimmick of the Bears getting exploited by a slick promoter (Tony Curtis) feels forced, as does the uninteresting romantic subplot involving Kelly (once more played by Haley) and a pretty Japanese teenager. Even the game-time jokes start to feel tired by this point, so Japan is to be avoided by those who wish to leave their memories of the first picture untouched. The franchise soldiered on when CBS broadcast one season of a Bad News Bears TV series in 1979–1980, with Jack Warden playing Matthau’s old role of Morris Buttermaker. Then, in 2005, the Bears returned for director Richard Linklater’s pointless remake of the original film, with Billy Bob Thornton becoming the third actor to play Buttermaker.

The Bad News Bears: RIGHT ON

The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training: FUNKY

The Bad News Bears Go to Japan: LAME

Nickelodeon (1976)

          The notorious flop that finally knocked director Peter Bogdanovich off the Hollywood A-list after a precipitous slide, Nickelodeon is a fascinating movie unfairly relegated to obscurity. In the overstuffed narrative, Ryan O’Neal and Burt Reynolds play early-20th-century ne’er-do-wells who stumble into cinema careers when they encounter a disreputable producer (Brian Keith); a romantic triangle then emerges because O’Neal and Reynolds are both infatuated with the beautiful klutz (Jane Hitchcock) who keeps crossing their respective paths. Eventually, O’Neal becomes a director and Reynolds becomes his long-suffering leading man, so they wend their way through calamitous filmmaking experiences accompanied by a motley crew of actors and technicians (played by a vibrant ensemble including George Gaynes, Tatum O’Neal, John Ritter, and Stella Stevens).

          In a rare case of a movie being too meticulously scripted for its own good, Nickelodeon smothers a slight premise with painstaking detail, since each new plot development is dramatized at considerable length; accordingly, the movie wavers between happy-go-lucky farce and romantic dramedy as Bogdanovich endeavors to include every colorful episode he can imagine, whether the episodes advance the narrative or not. Bogdanovich, a scholarly cinephile who interviewed many of the great studio-era directors, rewrote W.D. Richter’s original script to include fictionalized anecdotes drawn from the life experiences of real-life cinematic pioneers, and the all-business soberness of Bogdanovich’s attempt to re-create the madcap milieu of silent-era comedy undercuts the story’s frothy appeal.

          Yet even with these storytelling excesses (and an overreliance on slapstick gags like breakaway walls and pratfalls), there’s a lot of gorgeous filmmaking on display in Nickelodeon. Laszlo Kovacs’ photography is elegant, the craftsmanship of the sight gags is impressive, and the nerdy motif of shout-outs to classic directors is endearing. Ryan O’Neal and Reynolds lock into smooth grooves during light-comedy passages like their epic fistfight, while Tatum O’Neal delivers a memorable dose of her signature old-before-her-years edginess. So even though Nickelodeon is excessive and undisciplined, it’s crafted with such care that it can’t be ignored. In 2009, Bogdanovich revisited the movie for its DVD debut, adding several minutes of previously unused footage and converting the imagery to black-and-white, the format he originally intended to use; the disc features both the monochromatic version and the original full-color theatrical release.

Nickelodeon: GROOVY