Little House on the Prairie (1974)

          A precursor to the oppressively wholesome dramatic series of the same name, the telefilm Little House on the Prairie is a solid piece of work considering that principal creative force Michael Landon generated 98 minutes of slick entertainment without employing any real dramatic conflict. Famous for his role as Little Joe Cartwright on the megahit Western series Bonanza (1959-1973), Landon served as coproducer, director, and star for this adaptation of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s book. The book, second in a long series extrapolated from the author’s childhood adventures, offers a warm autobiographical sketch of the Ingalls family’s relocation from Wisconsin to the Kansas prairie circa the 1860s. As dramatized by Landon, from a script by Blanche Hanalis, Little House on the Prairie is a heartening study in goodness, perseverance, and tolerance.

          Dauntless patriarch Charles Ingalls (Landon) leads his family on a dangerous trek through rough rapids, unforgiving plains, and winter storms until they arrive in open land they believe is available for settlers. Befriending a grizzled but kindly settler named Isaiah Edwards (Victor French), Charles and his wife, Caroline (Karen Grassle), build a small house in which they nurture their children, despite the ever-present threat of hostile Indians and natural disasters. Putting a heavy focus on religious faith, the film depicts the Ingalls clan surmounting the Indian problem quite easily—since it turns out the local natives are friendly people interested only in cultural exchange and the trading of goods—and surviving the potential catastrophe of a brush fire thanks to divine intervention, in the form of a sudden rainstorm. Through it all, Charles teaches lessons while sounding a lot more like a ’70s family therapist than an Old West pioneer. Charles and his relatives talk about their feelings a lot, particularly in scenes between Charles and his daughter Laura (Melissa Gilbert), whose character provides the film’s narration. (This device continued during the series, in which the Laura character inherits the nickname “Half-Pint.”)

          Landon’s performance in this movie is charismatic to a fault, since many scenes feel as if they were designed solely to showcase the saintly qualities of the protagonist, and even the moments when Charles displays weakness embellish the hero-worship approach. That said, humanistic values are commendable in any context, and it’s hard to fault the film’s message about the importance of familial loyalty, hard work, and humility. Plus, there’s a lot of narrative business about the ubiquity of dirt on the prairie, and there’s even a running gag about spitting, so the film isn’t totally antiseptic—though it’s close. As to whether the world actually needed 204 episodes and three reunion movies continuing the Ingalls odyssey, well, that’s a discussion for another day.

Little House on the Prairie: FUNKY

The House on Skull Mountain (1974)

The House on Skull Mountain is one of those silly supernatural thrillers with just enough happening in terms of narrative intrigue and production values that if you came across five minutes of the movie on late-night TV, your curiosity might be piqued. Unfortunately, there are probably only about five interesting minutes in the entire bottom-of-the-barrel shocker. Worse, The House on Skull Mountain is rated PG, so even though the story has intimations of titillating occult weirdness, The House on Skull Mountain doesn’t even have the usual exploitation-flick distractions of gore and smut. The story begins when an old voodoo priestess dies in Georgia, triggering the invitation of several long-lost relatives to her estate for the reading of her will. As the movie’s title suggests, the woman lived atop a mountain with rock formations resembling a giant skull, which is such a goofy detail it makes the movie feel like an episode of Scooby-Doo. The relatives who gather include Lorena (Janee Michelle), a beautiful young black woman, and Dr. Andrew Cunningham (Victor French), the only white man in the group. Very quickly, the filmmakers reveal that the deceased’s faithful butler, Thomas (Jean Durand), is a voodoo priest conspiring to kill the relatives in order to inherit their family’s power, which leads to a climax in which Thomas dances around with a group of anonymous cultists. The movie also features several unexciting murder attempts, usually preceded by someone seeing a phantom skull floating in front of them. (Yawn.) The movie is adequately made, with crisp photography and a few decent-looking sets, but the script is a tedious muddle, and the acting is terrible. French, best known for roles on touchy-feely TV shows, tries in vain to make his scenes work, and Michelle, though quite lovely, is completely vapid. Only Durand provides much interest, but his campy performance isn’t reason enough to sit through this dreck.

The House on Skull Mountain: LAME

The Other (1972)

          Considering that it’s an entry in the long and dubious genre of creepy-kid horror movies, The Other has an awfully posh pedigree. The film’s director is Robert Mulligan, of To Kill a Mockingbird fame, and the star is Uta Hagen, the revered acting teacher whose book, Respect for Acting, is a sacred text for thespians. Fittingly, The Other favors backstory and character development over straight-out scares, though the narrative is actually quite lurid.

          In Connecticut circa 1935, twin boys Niles and Holland Perry (played by real-life twins Chris Udvarnoky and Martin Udvarnoky, respectively) engage in boyhood mischief with an edge. Niles is psychic and Holland is sadistic, so they seem strange from the moment they’re introduced cavorting in bowl cuts and short pants. Their relatives are just as peculiar: The boys’ mother (Diana Muldaur) is a basket case who rarely leaves her bedroom, and their grandmother, Ada (Hagen), is a superstitious immigrant who teaches Niles how to sharpen his special abilities.

          As the story progresses, Holland’s violent side grows more dangerous, leading to a series of deaths, and Ada slowly realizes that Niles is complicit in his brother’s activities; this leads to a huge plot twist in the middle of the movie that shouldn’t be spoiled. There’s nothing egregiously wrong with the story, by actor-turned-writer Tom Tryon (who adapted the script from his own novel), but many questions can be raised about the way Mulligan tells the story.
          First off, The Other is painfully slow, and the picture drags through long and uninteresting idylls whenever Niles and Holland get embroiled in deep conversations. The Udvarnovky twins are fine, as child actors go, but Mulligan simply can’t make their surface-level exchanges compelling enough to keep the momentum going between jolts. Mulligan also seems preoccupied with creating nostalgic atmosphere, lavishing attention on details of clothing, décor, and furnishing. While it’s admirable whenever a filmmaker treats a horror story with as much care as a “real” movie, the priority is supposed to be generating tension, not showcasing production design.

          Still, the acting by the grownups is generally strong. Hagen is a bit florid, using stagey flamboyance as she speaks with a thick accent and suffers operatic emotional upheavals, and Muldaur is believably pained but underused. Victor French is similarly wasted in his role as the Perry family’s unlucky handyman, and John Ritter shows up in a minor role. The Other has its fans, and none can dispute that the film was made with care, but for many viewers, the picture will be far too slow and unsatisfying to justify digging for its hidden pleasures.

The Other: FUNKY