Chinese Caper (1975)

Although its storytelling is more coherent than the usual under-budgeted sludge made overseas by Americans of questionable ability, Chinese Caper is so drab and unimaginative—to say nothing of cheaply produced, heinously scored, and poorly acted—that it’s wholly disposable. Only fans of Victor Buono’s campy performance style, Meredith MacRae’s wholesome pulchritude, and the visual splendor of Taiwan can find distractions from the insipid plot. Yet even those attributes offer scant comfort because they are subordinate to the lifleless screen presence of leading actor Geoffrey Deuel, whose inconsequential career largely comprised guest shots on TV. Anyway, while drifting in Taiwan, small-time thief Larry (Deuel) gets approached by wealthy expat Everett (Buono) to participate in a heist. Initially reluctant, Larry takes the gig because he falls for Everett’s assistant, Carolyn (MacRae), and wants money for their future. The climactic heist goes so smoothly that the picture lacks any semblance of tension until the final scenes, when an excruciatingly predictable double-cross occurs. Getting there isn’t worth the trouble because Chinese Caper stretches about 30 minutes worth of story across 90 minutes of screen time, meaning viewers get bludgeoned with aimless montages, plodding dialogue, and stupidly attenuated interactions—the lengthy sequence requiring MacRae to feign emotional intensity quickly transitions from unintentionally funny to insufferably boring.

Chinese Caper: LAME

Northeast of Seoul (1972)

          In terms of originality and quality, Northeast of Seoul is a bust. The narrative is muddy, the thrills are trite, and the way Hollywood stars interact with foreign culture is about as authentic as an episode of The Love Boat. There’s also something innately comical about presenting corpulent ’60s star Victor Buono as a man of action. Having said all that, Northeast of Seoul is enjoyable if you’re receptive to its tacky pleasures, such as Buono creeping through a mansion like a ninja or running through forests like he’s James Bond on a secret mission. Nothing about Northeast of Seoul bears the slightest resemblance to human reality, so while the picture isn’t quite camp, it’s thoroughly silly.

          Set in Korea, the movie concerns the search for a priceless ancient sword. Some parties want it for purposes of historical preservation, others want it because of its value on the black market, and still others want it because it’s purported to imbue its possessor with magical powers. Flanaghan (John Ireland) is a down-on-his-luck American working as a tour guide, since he knows Seoul as well as most natives. At the beginning of the picture, he attends a funeral and reconnects with Portman (Buono), an American art dealer based in Seoul, and Katherine (Anita Ekberg), an international woman of mystery. Long ago, they were partners with the man who just died, so when they get a tip that someone has found the long-missing Kuguro Sword, they team up again to find the artifact.

          Borrowing style and themes from The Maltese Falcon (1941) and its myriad imitators, Northeast of Seoul portrays a tenuous alliance among untrustworthy people, with each scene introducing a new betrayal. This results in a storyline that’s always eventful but rarely clear—the filmmakers seem to believe that as long as lots of things are happening and people regularly jab each other with pithy dialogue, explanations are unnecessary. Ireland does a fair job channeling Humphrey Bogart-style cynicism, and Buono, as always, injects his villainous characterization with playful humor. Ekberg contributes the least of the three marquee names, but her presence is amusingly incongruous. Also of interest is extensive location photography throughout Seoul and the surrounding areas, as well as the use of classical Korean instruments on the soundtrack.

Northeast of Seoul: FUNKY

1980 Week: The Man With Bogart’s Face

          Nostalgia for the golden era of film noir infused a number of movies in the ’70s and ’80s, from Roman Polanski’s provocative Chinatown (1974) to Carl Reiner’s silly Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (1982) and beyond. Yet perhaps the strangest tip of the cinematic fedora was The Man With Bogart’s Face, a lighthearted mystery flick starring Humphrey Bogart lookalike Robert Saachi. Ostensibly a comedy, the picture has an innately surreal quality not only because of Saachi’s eerie resemblance but also because of the bizarre way that writer/producer Andrew J. Fenaday addresses the resemblance within the storyline. The flick begins with Sam Marlowe (Saachi) in a doctor’s office, having bandages removed from his head. The idea is that Sam, or whatever his real name might be, is so nuts for Bogie that he had his features surgically altered. Sam also starts a private-eye business, drives around in a car from the 1940s, and wears a trenchcoat reminiscent of Bogart’s costume from the final scene of Casablanca (1942). People often ask what’s wrong with his face whenever Sam mimics Bogart’s signature tic of flexing his lips. And so on. But because Fenaday never provides any backstory for the leading character, The Man With Bogart’s Face dodges the big question of whether the title character is a raving lunatic.

          Vexing mysteries about the leading character aren’t the only issues plaguing this film, which is overlong but otherwise pleasant to watch thanks to an eventful storyline and the presence of familiar supporting actors. The biggest problem is the limp nature of the picture’s comedy. Sight gags and verbal jokes fall flat on a regular basis. That said, it’s possible to consume The Man With Bogart’s Face as a goofy mystery and overlook the weak attempts at hilarity. As one might expect from a genre homage, the plot is formulaic—several clients hire Sam for cases that turn out to be interconnected, and everyone’s after a priceless treasure. Sam’s pithy voiceover connects scenes of betrayal, seduction, suspense, and violence, all of which are played for lukewarm laughs. Providing the movie’s eye-candy quotient are Sybil Danning, Olivia Hussey, Michelle Phillips, and Misty Rowe. Lending various shades of villainy are Victor Buono, Herbert Lom, Franco Nero, George Raft, and Jay Robinson. As for Saachi, his mimicry is smooth enough to complete the weird illusion created by his dopplegänger appearance.

The Man With Bogart’s Face: FUNKY

Goodnight, My Love (1972)

          A clue about the right way to watch the made-for-TV detective flick Goodnight, My Love is contained in the title, which is basically a rephrasing of the moniker adorning Raymond Chandler’s classic Philip Marlowe novel Farewell, My Lovely (1940). This picture is a love letter to Chandler, nothing more and nothing less, so even though it’s highly entertaining, stylishly photographed, and verbally witty, it’s not to be mistaken for a truly original piece of work. That said, paying homage to the film-noir literature and movies of yesteryear was a veritable cottage industry in the ’70s, and Goodnight, My Love was ahead of the curve, arriving a year before Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbye (1973) and two years before Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974). This project wasn’t the first neo-noir, since projects including Stephen Frears’ Gumshoe (1971) came earlier, but it wasn’t riding in the back of the bandwagon, either.

          In any event, Goodnight, My Love is significant beyond its connection to similar genre pictures, because it’s among the earliest directing credits for Peter Hyams, a unique populist with a distinctive pictorial style. (He’s among the few Hollywood directors to occasionally serve as his own cinematographer.) Although his stories often crumble toward the end, Hyams has a great flair for pithy dialogue and he’s fantastic at presenting sardonic tough guys, two skills that emerged fully formed here and that suit the noir milieu perfectly. Richard Boone, all craggy bulk and sleepy-eyed cynicism, plays Francis Hogan, a low-rent private dick in 1940s Los Angeles. His partner is Arthur Boyle (Michael Dunn), a little person with a big mouth, and they spend most of their time trying to scam free meals off creditors until a glamorous dame walks into the office. (Isn’t that always how these stories start?) She’s Susan Lakely (Barbara Bain), and her boyfriend has gone missing. Francis and Arthur take the case, eventually uncovering a convoluted conspiracy involving rotund gentleman criminal Julius Limeway (Victor Buono channeling Sidney Greenstreet).

          Yet the narrative is secondary to the style here, as Hyams fills scenes with bitchy repartee that his excellent leading actors deliver in the ideal deadpan mode. Bain is arguably the weak link, a bit long in the tooth to play what amounts to an ingénue role, though that doesn’t matter a whole lot since Hyams is more interested in the amusing rhythms of boys squaring off against each other as friends, enemies, or some combination of both. Goodnight, My Love is also photographed with extraordinary artistry for a TV movie of its vintage, because Hyams mounts ambitious tracking shots and employs imaginative lighting schemes by illuminating actors with practicals scattered throughout his sets.

          In every way except perhaps the most important one—conveying a resonant theme—Goodnight, My Love is an impressive first outing, and it’s also a wonderful showcase for onetime Oscar nominee Dunn. A fabulous actor who always escaped the limitations of novelty roles and seized opportunities like this one to play everyday people, he died less than a year after Goodnight, My Love was broadcast, although this was not his final onscreen performance. 

Goodnight, My Love: FUNKY

Moonchild (1974)

One of a handful of ’70s features that began as film-school thesis projects, writer-director Alan Gadney’s Moonchild is ambitious to a fault. Not only did Gadney secure impressive locations and the participation of Hollywood actors, but he also attempted to tell an intricately allegorical story about existential and metaphysical subjects. Had Gadney been able to pull this one off, it would have been such a miraculous achievement that we’d still be talking about his audacity today, because Moonchild would have launched a singular filmmaking career. Alas, Gadney botched things so badly that Moonchild was his last directorial endeavor as well as his first. The murky storyline goes something like this: A young artist (Mark Travis) realizes that he’s been reincarnated in some otherworldly realm, where supernatural figures including the Maitre’D (Victor Buono) battle for control of his soul while an impartial observer called Mr. Walker (John Carradine) both comments upon and observes the momentous events. At first, the scenario unfolds like the setup for a horror movie, with the leading character trapped inside a weird playground for godlike lunatics. Later, once Gadney indulges himself with religious imagery, the story veers into a kangaroo-court situation with spiritual implications. (“If death is a dream," Buono coos, "then what is life? Is life God or Man?”) Some of what happens in Moonchild is borderline interesting, but the movie’s style is insufferable, particularly the hyperactive editing. Worse, the blurring of hallucinations and reality creates long stretches of incoherence. Eventually, it’s all way too much, so the viewer’s inevitable reaction is best summarized by an exclamation the protagonist makes somewhere around the 33-minute mark: “What is this? What are you people talking about?” Exactly.

Moonchild: LAME

The Evil (1978)

          Schlocky but entertaining, The Evil takes the haunted-house genre to its logical extreme, resulting in a climax that’s embarrassingly obvious and stupid. Before it totally goes off the rails, however, the movie offers a number of gruesome deaths and touches on nearly every cliché associated with the haunted-house genre—apparitions, inexplicable noises, objects moved about by unseen forces, people possessed by dastardly spirits, and so on. None of what happens is particularly scary, so The Evil plays out like one of those old ’50s horror comics—it’s all about the fun of playing with concepts that might actually be scary if they were executed with greater care and sophistication. Because, rest assured, care and sophistication are not among the elements that cowriter-director Gus Trikonis brings to the party. Trikonis and his collaborators generate a few decent effects, particularly during scenes of people getting thrown around by supernatural powers, but The Evil is bargain-basement pulp through and through.

          Richard Crenna, all beardy and serious, plays Dr. C.J. Arnold, a shrink who rents an old mansion for a summer of psychiatric research. Several colleagues gravitate to the mansion in order to help with the project. While the scientists prep the house in anticipation of receiving patients, C.J.’s wife, Dr. Caroline Arnold (Joanna Pettet), sees ghostly visions and strange phenomena, including a fireplace roaring to life without being ignited. Concurrently, director Trikonis shows the house flexing its maniacal muscle, because the live-in caretaker gets burned alive when a magical jet of flame bursts from a furnace. Demonstrating why it is unwise to parse the logic of The Evil, C.J. doesn’t perform the de rigueur act of foolishly unleashing the malevolent entity that resides in the house until about 30 minutes into the story, when he removes a crucifix that’s holding a secret compartment in the basement closed. (Because, of course, that’s what any sensible person would do upon encountering a secret compartment locked with a crucifix.)

          The problem, from a story perspective, is that the house has already racked up a body count before C.J. uncorks the hidey-hole, so the story that subsequently unfolds—in which the heroes must reseal the compartment in order to save themselves—doesn’t reconcile with onscreen events. Nonetheless, one doesn’t watch a flick like The Evil for masterful storytelling, and Triknois provides enough mayhem to keep casual viewers engaged. A couple of folks get electrocuted, a dude gets swallowed by the earth, and an unfortunate lady gets most of her clothes ripped off by demonic winds. You get the idea. The acting in The Evil is nothing special, although everyone delivers basically competent work, and it’s a hoot to see corpulent bon vivant Victor Buono show up for a ridiculous cameo at the end.

The Evil: FUNKY

The Wrath of God (1972)

          Not to be confused with the amazing German film Aguirre: The Wrath of God, which was also released in 1972, this American production is a routine action picture starring the venerable Robert Mitchum as a gun-toting con man wreaking havoc in South America during the 1920s. Notwithstanding Mitchum’s top billing, the lead character is actually portrayed by workaday Scottish actor Ken Hutchison. He plays Emmet, a ne’er-do-well European stranded in a dingy Latin American nation. Emmet reluctantly accepts a job from corpulent gringo crook Jennings (Victor Buono) to drive a truck filled with illegal liquor to the U.S. Along the way, Emmet meets an amiable priest named Father Van Horne (Mitchum). Next, Emmet gets into a hassle while preventing banditos from raping a native woman, Chela (Paula Pritchett). Unexpectedly, Van Horne comes to his new friend’s aid—by unleashing the machine gun hidden in his luggage. Yet somehow, the storyline gets even more random after that turn of events.

          A powerful military official, Colonel Santila (John Colicos), recruits Emmet, Jennings, and Van Horne for a suicide mission to depose Thomas De La Plata (Frank Langella), the crazed aristocrat controlling a small town, so the movie’s climax involves a violent showdown between the “heroes” and De La Plata’s ruthless gang. Featuring all of these disparate elements plus other incidental flourishes, like Rita Hayworth’s tiny role as De La Plata’s mother, The Wrath of God is diffuse in the extreme. Produced and directed by the proficient Ralph Nelson, the movie can’t decide on a consistent tone or a main character: The picture vacillates between black comedy and bloody action while the Emmet and Van Horne characters compete for prominence. Nonetheless, some of what happens is mildly exciting, and some of the actors deliver enjoyably florid performances. Buono’s sardonic volatility complements Langella’s over-the-top intensity, for instance, although Mitchum is Mitchum, to the degree that he sometimes seems as if he wandered in from another movie. Poor Hutchison gets lost in the shuffle, particularly since his character’s motivation seems to change with every scene. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

The Wrath of God: FUNKY

Man from Atlantis (1977)

          The first of four telefilms that introduced the lead character of a subsequent (and short-lived) series bearing the same name, Man from Atlantis is a no-nonsense fantasy that neither oversells its ludicrous premise by trying for heavy drama nor undercuts the premise by opting for camp. Patrick Duffy, later of Dallas fame, plays Mark Harris, a mystery man who washes ashore and seems close to death until marine researcher Dr. Elizabeth Merrill (Belinda Montgomery) dunks him in the ocean, where the water revives him. Turns out Mark is an unprecedented man/fish hybrid with incredible underwater powers—he ended up on the beach after a knock on the noggin rendered him unconscious—so the stalwart Navy admiral (Art Lund) who oversees Elizabeth’s funding quickly recruits Mark for a mission. It seems a number of international submersibles have disappeared into a deep oceanic trench, so Mark agrees to investigate on behalf of his air-breathing benefactress.

          He dives into the trench and discovers that a brilliant madman, Mr. Schubert (Victor Buono), has captured the missing vessels, pillaged them for parts, and brainwashed the crew members, all in pursuit of a loopy master plan. In other words, the plot is standard comic-book fare, and as such it’s best not to investigate the particulars too closely. That said, Man from Atlantis has drive and focus, moving at an assured but unhurried pace and featuring such soft-spoken characters that it’s a refreshing change from the usual histrionics of fantasy television. It helps, a lot, that Oscar-winning composer Fred Karlin contributes an atmospheric score and that much of the picture takes place underwater, lending a sense of grandeur.

          Sure, there’s a lot of silliness onscreen, like the bit in which Mark races a dolphin across a pool before leaping out of the pool and grabbing a fish from the dolphin’s human trainer, and the miniature FX for submarine scenes aren’t exactly top-shelf. But the main character is inherently interesting—the last of his kind, and all that—and the script, by Mayo Simon, presents outrageous concepts in such a matter-of-fact fashion that it’s easy to relax and enjoy the ride. None of the actors does much to get excited about, excepting the always-enjoyable Buono, who eschews his usual flamboyance for a quieter kind of menace; but then again, the wooden performances suit the piece’s unvarnished approach. FYI, an enjoyable Man from Atlantis cast reunion took place in 2012, and remarks about that event appear here. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Man from Atlantis: FUNKY