The Marcus-Nelson Murders (1973)

          Significant as the first appearance of Telly Savalas’ popular TV crimefighter Lt. Theo Kojack, whose last name was altered slightly once the character earned his own series a few months later, The Marcus-Nelson Murders works well as a stand-alone story about the complexities of police work. Extrapolated from a real-life case that informed the Supreme Court’s famous Miranda ruling, The Marcus-Nelson Murders depicts the callousness with which the NYPD railroads an innocent man who makes an easy patsy for a high-profile crime. The Miranda ruling stipulated that suspects must be informed of their rights at the time of arrest, but the young man at the center of The Marcus-Nelson Murders gets arraigned on murder charges before he even realizes what’s happening. As written by the highly capable dramatist Abby Mann (an Oscar winner for 1961’s theatrical feature Judgment at Nuremberg), this adaptation of Selwyn Rabb’s book Justice in the Back Room has the flavor and toughness of Sidney Lumet’s myriad New York crime films, right down to the varied shadings of morality.

          The story begins with a mysterious attacker invading a Manhattan apartment. Two of the women who live there are brutally murdered during the home invasion. Public attention compels the police to throw enormous manpower onto the case. Among the investigators is Kojack. He mostly lingers on the sidelines for the first half of this long film, though director Joseph Sargent periodically features domestic interludes between Kojack and his on-again/off-again lover, Ruthie (Lorraine Gary). After cops in Brooklyn arrest a simple young black man, Lewis Humes (Gene Woodbury), on an unrelated charge, they become convinced Humes was responsible for the murders. The Brooklyn cops coerce a confession with a toxic combination of charm and violence. Kojack moves to the foreground after Humes is indicted, and the detective senses something isn’t right about the evidence incriminating Humes. What follows is the meticulous process by which Kojack and crusading lawyer Jake Weinhaus (José Ferrer) pursue the truth. Along the way, thorny issues (institutionalized racism, police procedure, unreliable eyewitness testimony) make it difficult for the heroes to see daylight, even as Humes rots in a cell.

          The Marcus-Nelson Murders covers a lot of ground, so at times it feels more like a miniseries than a movie. Some supporting characters resonate, including aggressive Brooklyn prosecutor Mario Portello (Allen Garfield), while others get lost in the shuffle. The picture also has false notes, such as casting B-movie stalwart Marjoe Gortner as a Puerto Rican. Nonetheless, the overarching theme—how the pursuit of justice intersects with the rights of the accused—comes through powerfully. Excepting the jaded narration he provides, Kojack is not the film’s most interesting element, so it’s no surprise producers overhauled the character for his weekly series, transforming the rechristened “Theo Kojak” from a principled observer to a wisecracking rulebreaker.

The Marcus-Nelson Murders: GROOVY

Mongo’s Back in Town (1971)

          Telling the story of a hit man who returns to his old neighborhood for a contract job that’s imbued with family issues, the made-for-TV melodrama Mongo’s Back in Town is fairly thoughtful in terms of characterization and themes. Making the piece even more interesting is a noteworthy cast: Joe Don Baker, Charles Cioffi, Sally Field, Anne Francis, Telly Savalas, Martin Sheen. Excepting Baker and Field, none of these players has room to do much that’s out of the ordinary, but their collective efforts, in tandem with director Marvin J. Chomsky’s understated storytelling, ensure that Mongo’s Back in Town feels like something more than a typical small-screen crime picture. The murky script has something to do with Mongo Nash (Baker) answering a call from his brother, low-rent gangster Mike Nash (Cioffi), to off someone. Local cop Lt. Pete Tolstad (Savalas) sees Mongo arrive, so he knows what’s up and tries to prevent bloodshed. Meanwhile, Mongo happens across Vikki (Field), a young woman who recently left her home in rural West Virginia to start a new life in the big city. Compelled by a combination of lust and pity, Mongo gives Vikki a place to stay, putting her in the crossfire as the date of the big hit approaches. Also pulled into the drama are a moll (Francis) and Tolstad’s partner (Sheen).

          Although the plot of Mongo’s Back in Town is alternately convoluted and pedestrian, it’s possible to watch the movie just for the acting and character work. On that level, it’s fairly rewarding. Baker gets to carry most of the picture’s dramatic weight, and he does so gracefully. Playing a thug defined by his past choices and the patterns they created, Baker shows glimmers of sensitivity in his scenes with Field, because even though she’s not purely innocent—a wise choice on the filmmakers’ part—she’s redeemable, which may or may not be true of Baker’s character. This unpredictable relationship creates dramatic tension of an emotional sort, which offers an effective complement to the ticking-clock suspense stemming from the contract killing. Yet it’s not as if Baker’s character comes across as some gentle giant in a world of nefarious hoodlums; some of the crimes that Mongo commits are horrendous. Less dimensional are the cop scenes, with Sheen’s character offering by-the-book contrast to his partner’s instinctive style. And to call the material with Francis’ character threadbare would require overstatement.

          Still, the best elements of Mongo’s Back in Town work well enough to make the picture worthwhile. Polished and quiet, Mongo’s Back in Town favors gentle shadings of morality over flamboyant action scenes, so the film’s creative team deserves credit for trying something different within the parameters of a familiar genre. 

Mongo’s Back in Town: FUNKY

Redneck (1973)

          Some Eurotrash thrillers of a certain vintage have power almost despite themselves, simply because the connotations of the stories are so disturbing. Such is the case with Redneck, a coproduction of British and Italian companies starring an American, a Brit, and an Italian. On the surface, Redneck is a straightforward crime picture about a child becoming a captive when crooks steal his mother’s car during a getaway. Yet the story eventually grows to include creepy implications about the boy modeling after his captors. Director Silvio Narizzano and his collaborators deserve some kind of credit—or blame—for heading down such a dark path. However, because Redneck is all over the place tonally, and because top-billed star Telly Savalas gives a ridiculous performance, it’s hard to describe Narizzzano’s storytelling as disciplined. More like exactly the opposite. Nonetheless, there’s some interestingly weird stuff in here, alongside stuff that’s weird for no real purpose. As such, it’s likely the only folks who will consider Redneck essential viewing are those who relish off-the-rails filmmaking and unhinged acting.
          The picture opens with a fairly exciting scene during which Memphis (Savalas) and Mosquito (Franco Nero) rob a store. Memphis kills a man during the crime, which shocks Mosquito, who didn’t sign up for homicide. A wild getaway ensues, with the crooks stealing various cars and causing wrecks throughout narrow European streets. Eventually, the crooks realize they have a stowaway, 13-year-old Lennox (Mark Lester). Thereafter, the plot makes very little sense, because it’s not clear whether the crooks want to hold the kid for ransom or simply fear what incriminating information he might provide if released. It’s not as if Memphis has any compunctions against killing innocent bystanders, since he offs another kid (and a dog) over the course of his journey. Mosquito tries to keep Lennox safe even as Memphis becomes more and more deranged, and Lennox vacillates between idolizing the humane Mosquito and worshiping the maniacal Memphis.
          Like so many hopelessly contrived genre pictures, Rednecks throws characters together believably, then loses credibility by failing to explain why they stay together; clearly, the filmmakers reached for some sort of male-bonding intensity that remained forever beyond their grasp. In one sequence, for instance, Mosquito stands naked next to Lennox while shaving, prompting Lennox, a few moments later, to examine his genitals in comparison to his grown-up buddy’s. Anyway, Savalas’ performance is quite a spectacle, and not in a good way. He cries, giggles, rhymes, screams, and sings, sometimes decorating his lines with an annoying approximation of African-American street jive. The operative word is “self-indulgent.” Adventurous viewers may find Redneck’s extremes amusing. Others will find them tiresome and unpleasant, though Redneck is rarely boring.

Redneck: FUNKY

Killer Force (1976)

          A heist thriller that sacrifices believability and logic in the name of plot twists, Killer Force—also known as The Diamond Mercenaries—features an offbeat cast and a moderately exciting climax filled with bloodshed and chases and gunfights. Getting to the finale requires a bit of patience, since the picture’s first two acts are a bit on the sluggish side, and none should seek out Killer Force hoping for anything along the lines of resonance or substance. This is manly-man escapism of the most vapid sort imaginable, although the macho posturing is leavened by leading man Peter Fonda’s sensitive-dude mannerisms. Plus, it’s hard to take the movie too seriously, not only because of the far-fetched storyline, but also because of two peculiar visual tropes: Costar Telly Savalas wears sunglasses throughout the entire movie, removing them only in the final shot, and Fonda sports a goofy perm that looks like a half-hearted attempt at a white-guy Afro. The innate silliness of Killer Force is part of the movie’s appeal, but that’s to be expected of any movie featuring O.J. Simpson in a supporting role.

          Set in the South African desert, the picture revolves around a heavily fortified diamond mine. Harry Webb (Savalas), a cold-blooded security specialist, arrives at the sprawling facility because clues indicate that someone is planning an inside-job robbery. Mike Bradley (Fonda) is a member of the private army that patrols the facility and the surrounding area. Criminal mastermind John Lewis (Hugh O’Brien) has assembled a small team to invade the mine and steal diamonds. His accomplices include easygoing “Bopper” Alexander (Simpson) and sadistic ex-solider Major Chilton (Christopher Lee). Another player in the convoluted plot is Chambers (Stuart Brown), the facility’s administrator. Distrusting Webb, Chambers asks Bradley to play double agent by seeking out and joining the conspirators, thus drawing them into a trap. Complicating matters is Mike’s romantic involvement with Chambers’ fashion-model daughter, Clare (Maud Adams). And so it goes from there. Intrigue compounds intrigue, with the body count growing as the date of the inevitable heist attempt draws ever closer.

          About half of what happens in Killer Force makes logical sense, although everything goes down smoothly in a dunderheaded, Saturday-matinee sort of way. There’s a little romance, a little sex, a little male bonding, and lots of dudes grimacing with fierce determination. Director Val Guest—a somewhat unlikely candidate for this gig, seeing as how he’s best known for his sci-fi pictures—shoots Killer Force with the bland, boxy style of episodic television, so Killer Force doesn’t get any points for style. Still, the cast is hard to beat as a random assortment of familiar faces, and there’s just enough action to keep the picture’s blood pumping.

Killer Force: FUNKY

Clay Pigeon (1971)

Hollywood also-ran Tom Stern must have made a lot of friends or a lot of money, if not both, during the early years of his career as an actor and occasional director—because calling in favors or writing checks seem like the only means by which Stern could have cajoled Burgess Meredith, Telly Savalas, and Robert Vaughan into appearing in Stern’s misbegotten magnum opus, Clay Pigeon. A sloppily constructed story about a dude roped into a convoluted sting operation by government agents, the picture attempts to connect themes related to drugs, hippie culture, police corruption, and Vietnam. Abstract artists and exotic dancers are involved, as well. Even the main character, whom Stern portrays, is confusing: He’s a Vietnam veteran turned flower child, and yet he’s also periodically described as an ex-cop, and he may or may not be a drug addict. (Between the rotten storytelling and the intrusion of trippy drug sequences, it’s hard to tell what’s happening throughout most of the picture.) Stern, who codirected Clay Pigeon with Lane Slate, seems perplexed about what sort of movie he’s trying to make. At various times, Clay Pigeon is an action picture, a heavy drama, and a sexy thriller replete with abundant female nudity. At other times, the movie stops dead for interminable and meaningless discursions, as if Stern felt obligated to use every frame of film he shot. For example, consider the very long scene of Stern and Meredith riding a dune buggy through sandy hills while police vehicles follow, culminating in a slow-mo shot of a police car tumbling down a hill. The shot lingers onscreen so long that it almost qualifies as a subplot. Elsewhere in the movie, Savalas delivers this head-scratcher of a speech: “Quite by accident, we stumbled upon a ding-a-ling with a great deal of ability. I want to use that ability. I want to rouse the conscience of this freakout in order to succeed where you and I have failed, and that's to arrest a malignancy.”

Clay Pigeon: LAME

Inside Out (1975)

          Produced and released theatrically in England, but originally shown in the U.S. only on television (where it bore the moniker Hitler’s Gold), this picture offers a textbook example on how not to make a heist thriller. The characters are ciphers, the storyline is ludicrous, and the tension is nonexistent. After a dreary first half, the movie picks up somewhat once the actual heist gets underway, and the presence of three familiar actors in the leading roles generates a certain amount of interest. Nonetheless, there’s a reason why this picture never found a significant audience. Lots of reasons, actually.

          After a ho-hom prologue set in Nazi Germany, the picture cuts to modern-day London, where Harry Morgan (Telly Savalas) is a businessman, a criminal, or both. He’s approached by Ernst Furben (James Mason), who served in the German Army during World War II and claims to know the location of gold that was hidden by the Nazis. There’s some lip service given to how the men know each other, but, like Harry’s occupation, the information is neither clear nor memorable. In any event, Harry then recruits American adventurer Sylvester Wells (Robert Culp) to join the party. Together, the men concoct an absurd scheme that involves liberating an aging SS officer from jail, constructing a mock-up of Adolf Hitler’s WWII office, and training a man to portray Hitler. The plan also includes a dangerous and illegal entry into East Germany, which should be a source of great suspense, but is not.

          Anemically written by Judd Bernard and Stephen Schneck, Inside Out makes very little sense. The conspirators all seem friendly and trusting with each other, the obstacles the protagonists encounter are surmounted with relative ease, and the outrageous resources the thieves need always seem to be readily available. In terms of drama, logic, and tone, the movie is a disaster, right down to the all-over-the-place musical score, which combines disco passages and orchestral cues into sonic chaos. Still, star power matters, so Culp, Mason, and Savalas ensure that Inside Out is more or less watchable. (Mostly less.) In particular, Savalas’ smug swagger periodically creates the false impression that Inside Out has a sense of purpose, or at least a distinctive attitude. Further, cinematographer John Coquillon lends Inside Out a professional look, and the filmmakers make ample use of interesting European locations.

Inside Out: FUNKY

Violent City (1970)

          Made in Italy and known by many titles—including The Family, the moniker slapped on the film for a 1973 American re-release that was designed to piggyback on the success of the Godfather movies—this nasty Charles Bronson thriller boasts opulent production values and a pair of genuinely terrific action sequences, conveniently located at the beginning and end of the feature. And if the material wedged in between these impressive vignettes is occasionally dull and murky, at least director Sergio Sollima finds a solid groove whenever he focuses on the grim spectacle of a hit man annihilating targets. The plot is bit convoluted, but it goes something like this. In the tropics, goons pursue tough-guy crook Jeff (Bronson) and his glamorous girlfriend, Vanessa (Jill Ireland). This sparks a whiz-bang car chase that culminates in a bloody shootout. Jeff nearly dies, and insult gets added to injury when Vanessa leaves him for his main assailant, a gangster named Coogan. Compounding the indignities, Jeff is framed for murder and jailed. After his release, Jeff tracks down Coogan and Vanessa, killing Coogan and reclaiming Vanessa’s affections. However, while Jeff was in prison, Vanessa married crime boss Al (Telly Savalas), so a series of double-crosses and schemes ensues while Jeff tries to identify his true enemies.

          Following the turgid storyline isn’t worth the effort, but Sollima stages a number of cool scenes. The opening car chase, through tight city streets and winding country roads, gets the blood pumping nicely. A long sequence of Jeff methodically arranging and performing the murder of a racecar driver—during the middle of a race—is similarly tense. And the finale, which involves a glass elevator, is wonderfully stylish. It helps a great deal that legendary composer Ennio Morricone contributes a propulsive score, the main theme of which seems like a precursor of the thrilling music Morricone later created for 1987’s The Untouchables. So, even though Ireland is terrible and Savalas plays his clichéd role with a smattering of humor but not much imagination, there’s a lot of watchable stuff buried in Violent City. (In fact, there’s even a dash of sex, thanks to plentiful nude shots of Ireland’s shapely body double.) And, of course, Bronson is in his natural element, since he looks utterly believable whenever he kills people onscreen.

Violent City: FUNKY

Horror Express (1972)

A strange European production that overcomes a bland first hour by delivering an over-the-top finale filled with apocalyptic implications and mass bloodshed, Horror Express costars the venerable Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee in their umpteenth movie together. Set in the Far East circa 1906, the story begins when Professor Saxton (Lee) loads his latest discovery into the cargo car of the Trans-Siberian Express, intending to cart the fossil back to Europe. Saxton believes the creature he’s found might be the “missing link,” but once the train gets underway, a series of mysterious deaths suggests the monster is not only alive but also homicidal. Cushing plays Dr. Wells, another scientist on board the train and one of several inconsequential characters who get caught up in the intrigue of determining whether Saxton’s discovery is behind the trip’s rapidly rising body count. Much of the picture comprises talky scenes intercut with grisly murders, though the story gets very strange by the time a laughably miscast Telly Savalas shows up as a gun-toting Russian officer assigned to investigate the troubles reported aboard the train: It seems the shambling killer is actually an energy being from outer space who inhabits mortal shells long enough to find new hosts, a process that is accomplished by sucking people’s memories out through their eyeballs. (Yes, this is one of those gruesome flicks in which victims bleed profusely from their eye sockets.) The icky death scenes provide most of the movie’s lurid appeal, although the choice to make insane priest Father Pujardov (Alberto de Mendoza) look like infamous mad monk Rasputin is a nice touch. Cushing and Lee deliver perfunctory work, Savalas raises the energy level considerably with his absurd cameo, and the wild excess of the climax is noteworthy. Horror Express is mediocre at best, but it can’t be said the filmmakers were stingy with carnage.

Horror Express: FUNKY

Pancho Villa (1972)

To say this adventure about notorious Mexican outlaw Pancho Villa gets off to a strange start is an understatement: The first scene features an imprisoned Villa getting his head shaved by gringo jailors, after which Villa savors his newly bald pate. The problem? In real life, Villa had a healthy head of hair, so, apparently, the sole purpose of filming this scene was justifying the casting of Greek-descended New Yorker Telly Savalas in the lead role. It’s no surprise Savalas was unwilling to wear a wig for his performance, since he also chose to deliver lines with his customary dese-dem-dose inflection, to preen in dandyish clothes, and to periodically giggle with the same playful malice he once brought to his role as a Bond villain. Yet the strangeness of Pancho Villa doesn’t end with Savalas’ wildly inappropriate interpretation of the title character. Later, one of Villa’s gringo adversaries, a deranged U.S. soldier played by Chuck Connors, drives his men crazy with orders to shoot and kill a fly that’s buzzing around a mess hall—while comedic music straight out of a Mack Sennett one-reeler grinds on the soundtrack. Pancho Villa is peculiar from top to bottom, waffling back and forth between high-action scenes and idiotic comedy bits. The storyline has something to do with Villa committing crimes to raise money for his revolutionary endeavors, but Villa disappears for long stretches of the movie. During these bland sequences the movie focuses on Villa’s gringo lieutenant, Scotty, who is played by amiable giant Clint Walker, the six-foot-six TV and movie actor best known for the ’50s series Cheyenne. While some of the movie’s antics are funny, like the weird vignette in which Villa believes he’s having a heart attack until he realizes a small lizard has crept into his undershirt, the movie spends so much time meandering through inconsequential silliness that it’s impossible to detect any sense of drama or momentum.

Pancho Villa: LAME

A Town Called Hell (1971)

Yet another unwatchable Western spat forth from the bowels of the low-budget European film industry, A Town Called Hell is one of those simultaneously moronic and pretentious morality tales filled with dialogue about vengeance, and imagery rife with religious significance, yet almost completely lacking in coherence. The confusing picture begins when two Mexican revolutionaries—played by Robert Shaw and Martin Landau, to give you a sense of how far the picture is removed from reality—storm into a town and slaughter the local church congregation. A decade later, for reasons that are never particularly clear, Shaw has become the pacifistic local priest, and Telly Savalas—groomed within an inch of his life and talking in a vaguely Noo Yawk diction that makes no sense for the context—has emerged as a brutal local warlord whose power apparently stems from his willingness to shoot anyone who crosses his path. Into this environment arrives a mysterious black carriage containing a glass coffin, in which rests a white woman (Stella Stevens) who is very much alive; it seems her husband was killed in the town at some point, and she’s come for revenge. Yet her revenge, for some reason, takes the form of hiding out in Shaw’s church while Savalas taunts her with threats of violence. Then, when Savalas’ men abruptly turn on him, he more or less disappears from the story to make room for Landau, now a military official, who wants to find a fugitive hidden somewhere in the town. None of this makes much sense, and none of it is interesting; it’s all just very sweaty and unpleasant. Shaw, a great actor when guided by a strong director, is awful here, glowering and screaming pointlessly, and Stevens is so lifeless it’s appropriate she makes her entrance in a coffin. Savalas postures to a silly extreme, strutting around shirtless for most of the picture, and only Landau tries to give a credible performance, though he’s handicapped by the incomprehensible storyline.

A Town Called Hell: SQUARE

Kelly’s Heroes (1970)

          Entertaining despite an overlong running time and some dubious stylistic flourishes, Kelly’s Heroes is one of the myriad smartass World War II romps that followed in the wake of The Dirty Dozen (1967). Like the earlier picture, Kelly’s Heroes assembles an unlikely crew for an impossible task, all the while mixing anti-Establishment sentiment and broad characterizations in order to present everyman soldiers looking out for themselves instead of buying into the mission that brought them to the battlefield. Yet while The Dirty Dozen cleverly depicted criminals becoming soldiers, Kelly’s Heroes more crudely depicts soldiers becoming criminals; it’s a heist picture in war-movie clothing.

          Clint Eastwood stars as Private Kelly, an enlisted man with an attitude problem who accidentally discovers the hiding place for a cache of Nazi gold worth millions. He convinces his gruff NCO, “Big Joe” (Telly Savalas), to lead an excursion behind enemy lines so they can rip off the loot, and their crew soon expands to include “Crapgame” (Don Rickles), a supply sergeant who outfits the crew with munitions and other gear, and “Oddball” (Donald Sutherland), a space-case longhair who happens to have three Sherman tanks under his command. Sutherland’s characterization is simultaneously the funniest thing in the movie and the hardest element to believe; bearded and, though this is never explicitly stated, apparently high as a kite throughout the story, he’s a ’60s stoner in a ’40s setting, so it’s never clear, for instance, how he rose to the rank of sergeant.

          Yet logic isn’t really what makes this sort of movie work, because Kelly’s Heroes is a big, silly adventure story about entertaining characters blowing stuff up, cracking wise, and pulling one over on the man. The production values are impressive—the picture was shot in Yugoslavia, where a wealth of WWII-vintage gear was available for filming—and everyone delivers the requisite goods in terms of onscreen charisma. Eastwood is sly and quiet, always one step ahead of everyone else; Savalas is a dese-dem-dose tough guy; Rickles does his insult-comic thing, bitching and sassing with every breath; and Caroll O’Connor, going way over the top, appears as a ridiculous general who mistakes Kelly’s mission for a nervy invasion. All of this goes down fairly smoothly in a guy-movie kind of way, though it doesn’t seem unreasonable to lament the lack of anything resembling substance in the movie’s 144 minutes.

Kelly’s Heroes: FUNKY



Pretty Maids all in a Row (1971)

          A quick description of Pretty Maids all in a Row explains not only why the movie’s disparate elements couldn’t possibly have merged into a coherent whole, but also why the picture is a genuine cinematic oddity. Gene Roddenberry, the idealistic ex-cop who created Star Trek, wrote and produced the story, from a novel by Francis Pollini, about a high-school guidance counselor/football coach (Rock Hudson) who’s sleeping with half the girls in his school. Demonstrating a shocking lack of creative vision, Roddenberry’s script is an all-over-the-map mélange of murder mystery, psychodrama, romantic comedy, and sex farce. Directing this enterprise is Roger Vadim, the leering Frenchman best known for the exploitative ’60s movies he made starring two of his wives, Brigitte Bardot and Jane Fonda. With these men pulling the story in a hundred directions at once, Pretty Maids seems like a different film in each scene.

          When it begins, it’s the tacky story of horny teenager Ponce (John David Carson), who’s flummoxed by his constant erections, though it should be noted that in Vadim’s lurid fantasy world, Ponce’s high school is populated by gorgeous college-age women who walk around in body-hugging sweaters and micro-miniskirts; it’s difficult to imagine any straight boy keeping his wits about him in this sexualized environment. Ponce loses his mind when he literally gets an eyeful of his hot substitute teacher, Miss Smith (Angie Dickinson), because she leans over and presses her breasts into his face. He excuses himself to the restroom (presumably to take matters in hand), and discovers a seemingly unconscious girl in the next stall. When he reaches over to cop a feel, however, he discovers she’s actually dead. Classy!

          Once it becomes clear the girl was murdered, the school’s prissy principal (Roddy McDowall) and the local-yokel sheriff (Keenan Wynn) prove useless, so suave state cop Sam Surcher (Telly Savalas) takes the case. Then, when the bodies of young women keep piling up around the school, Ponce’s mentor, Michael “Tiger” McDrew (Hudson), emerges as a suspect. Somewhere in this mess of a story, Tiger finds time to push Ponce and Miss Smith together, apparently eager to get his young apprentice laid; this leads to cringe-worthy seduction scenes between Carson and Dickinson. Adding to the almost surreal quality of the storyline, most of the characters in the movie seem more concerned with whether Tiger’s team will win the big upcoming game than with finding the serial killer in their midst.

          One fears that satire might have been the intention.

          Pretty Maids all in a Row is a narrative disaster from any rational viewpoint, but the movie delivers a lot of vivid texture. Vadim fills the screen with beautiful women, often in some state of undress, and the leading players are entertaining even if they don’t have real roles to play. Hudson’s mildly creepy as a power-hungry nut who transitions from sexual conquests to getting away with murder; Dickinson is cartoonishly sexy in a performance that borders on camp; and Savalas is so bitchy and urbane that he’s one evening gown away from coming across like a drag queen. Strange stuff. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Pretty Maids all in a Row: FUNKY

A Reason to Live, a Reason to Die (1972)

By the early ’70s, the whole spaghetti Western thing had gotten pretty wheezy, but that didn’t stop enterprising international producers from hiring American tough guys for more tedious slaughter in the arid plains, usually set to insanely overwrought music by Ennio Morricone or one of his numerous clones. In the forgettable A Reason to Live, a Reason to Die, the old Dirty Dozen formula of convicts recruited for a suicide mission is applied to Civil War intrigue. At the beginning of the movie, Union officer Colonel Pembroke (James Coburn), an otherwise hard-as-nails military man, is pilloried by his superiors for surrendering a supposedly impregnable Union fort to ruthless Confederate officer Major Ward (Telly Savalas). Pembroke offers to redeem himself by retaking the fort, but the only men the Union will give him are a group of condemned scoundrels. To motivate these lowlifes, Pembroke claims that his real motivation is recovering $500,000 in gold from the fort, but it’s clear he’s compelled by something deeper. The eventual revelation of what’s driving Pembroke is potent enough that it should have been articulated at the beginning of the movie, because this simple revenge angle gives the story clarity it lacks until the revelation. However, murky motivation is the least of the picture’s problems, because the movie also lacks distinctive characterizations, interesting drama, and really much of anything resembling narrative momentum; between the set-up and the finale, all the characters do is quarrel and wander without much interference from outside parties. This makes A Reason to Live, a Reason to Die quite boring, no matter how effectively Coburn scowls from beneath his cowboy hat. Plus, as in most spaghetti Westerns, much of the dialogue is dubbed, with supporting actors clearly speaking Italian on-set. So while this movie may indeed provide a reason for its characters to live and a reason for its characters to die, it certainly doesn’t give viewers a reason to watch.

A Reason to Live, a Reason to Die: LAME

Escape to Athena (1979)

Escape to Athena should be a tasty wedge of cheese, based solely on the eclectic cast and the fact that helmer George P. Cosmatos (The Cassandra Crossing) knows how to make entertaining trash. Set during World War II, the movie features Sonny Bono, Claudia Cardinale, Elliot Gould, David Niven, Stefanie Powers, Roger Moore, Richard Roundtree, and Telly Savalas as guards and inmates at a German prison camp on a Mediterranean island. The muddy screenplay, based on a story co-written by Cosmatos, tries to weave together a plan to derail an impending Nazi onslaught, a quest to liberate oppressed locals, and a scheme to steal ancient relics—while still leaving room for comedy and romance—but in trying to play every possible crowd-pleasing note, Cosmatos creates an absolute mess. Not only are the ample charms of the cast wasted, but sumptuous location photography by British DP Gilbert Taylor, of Star Wars fame, is squandered on inconsequential and occasionally nonsensical scenes. Miscasting and tonal inconsistency are the biggest problems. Moore, clearly eager to try something different between 007 movies, plays a stately Austrian commandant who resents his Nazi superiors, but he gives an atrocious performance: His accent is pathetic, and he tries to come across as likeable and menacing at the same time, so his work is indecisive and sloppy. Bono is such an intrinsically ’70s figure, sporting the same shaggy shoulder-length hair and drooping walrus moustache he wore in his countless TV appearances with Cher, that he’s a walking anachronism. And the scenes featuring Elliot Gould as a fast-talking American showman, complete with straw boater hat and vaudeville hucksterism, are decidedly unfunny. Making matters worse, some of the top-billed players, notably Cardinale, Niven, and Roundtree, get lost entirely because their roles are underwritten and lack distinct impact. It’s true that a few of the action scenes are passable, and Powers is appealing-ish as a showgirl using her wiles to make the best of a bad situation, but neither of these elements feels compatible with the other. Despite its obvious eagerness to please, Escape to Athena is so undisciplined that watching the cavalcade of lame humor, random stars, and sporadic action eventually becomes numbing.

Escape to Athena: LAME

Capricorn One (1978)

Peter Hyams’ loopy conspiracy thriller has the American government faking a Mars landing to score political points, a storyline so ’70s it almost hurts. The outrageous concept is rich with visual and narrative potential, only some of which writer-director Hyams mines in his entertaining but inconsistent narrative. The main problem with the movie is also its main contrivance: After participating in the hoax, three astronauts learn that the government expects them to crash during their spaceship’s staged return to terra firma, because they’ve got to disappear for real in order to sell the illusion. Quick question No. 1: If the astronauts can’t be trusted, then how can the dozens of technicians involved in mounting the conspiracy be trusted? Quick question No. 2: How does a crash landing give the government the PR win they’re seeking by staging a fake Mars landing in the first place? Don’t look for answers, because logic takes a backseat to pulpy fun as plot twists slam into place so quickly they cause cinematic whiplash. The bits depicting the actual fabrication of the Mars landing are colorful, but oddly enough a long sequence of leading man James Brolin trapped in the deserts of the American Southwest is more vivid. Hal Holbrook shines as the main conspirator, delivering an epic monologue toward the beginning of the picture that lays out the particulars of the plot; with his mesmerizing scowl and lilting voice, Holbrook’s one of the few actors who can make that many minutes of unbroken speech compelling. Elliot Gould plays a combination Woodward and Bernstein as the intrepid reporter who tracks the case, doing his amiable bumbling-schnook routine, and the endangered astronauts at the heart of the story are portrayed by a truly eclectic trio: Brolin, O.J. Simpson, and Sam Waterston. They’re so mismatched that they represent of sliding scale of American acting, from Simpson’s cheerful incompetence to Brolin’s vapid professionalism to Waterston’s earnest skillfulness. Ace character players James B. Sikking and Robert Walden are in the mix too, as is Telly Savalas in a gonzo cameo that adds gleeful absurdity to the climax.

Capricorn One: GROOVY