Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson (1976)

          The best of Robert Altman’s ’70s movies cleverly concealed social satire beneath the candy-coated surface of lively entertainment—essentially, the formula that made M*A*S*H (1970) so effective. Yet as the decade wore on, Altman succumbed more and more frequently to pretentiousness, as if he felt he’d been anointed the official chronicler of America’s foibles. From its obnoxiously overlong title to its turgid non-narrative sprawl, Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson represents Altman at his most insufferably self-important. Adapted (very loosely) from a stage play by Arthur Kopit, the picture takes place in the twilight of the Wild West era, when hero-turned-celebrity William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody (Paul Newman) has become the proprietor of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, a tacky attraction/show that’s like a precursor to the modern theme park.

          Bill and his employees trot out actors who re-create scenes of frontier action, interspersed with rodeo-style equestrian displays and performances by genuine historical figures, including Annie Oakley (Geraldine Chaplin). The movie tells the “story” of Bill’s frustrating attempt to transform aging Indian leader Sitting Bull (Frank Kaquitts) into his latest star attraction. The problem is that Sitting Bull serves no agenda but his own. Given this colorful premise, Buffalo Bill and the Indians should be wonderfully clever and fun. And, indeed, Altman and co-writer Alan Rudolph take the piss out of every showbiz institution they can get their hands on, so Annie’s husband/manager (John Considine) constantly frets he’ll get shot by his wife; Sitting Bull’s interpreter (Will Sampson) hides behind Indian stoicism while playing mind games with Bill; and Bill himself is a drunken fraud whose signature long hair is a wig.

          As always, Altman builds scenes around eccentric behavior that he observes from a distance through the use of hidden microphones and long lenses. There’s a lived-in reality to the way characters occupy space in Altman’s films that virtually no other director can match, and Altman’s democratic approach levels the playing field for actors. With the exception of Burt Lancaster—whose character functions as a quasi-narrator and therefore exists somewhat outside the regular action of the picture—everyone in Buffalo Bill and the Indians comes across as a member of a smoothly integrated ensemble. Some performers thrive in this milieu (Joel Grey’s portrayal of an unflappable producer is terrific, and Samson’s quietude manifests as tremendous charisma), while others get lost, especially when burdened with underwritten roles. (A miscast Harvey Keitel, as Buffalo Bill’s nerdy nephew, is one such casualty.)

          The problem, as was so often the case in Altman’s films, is that there’s simultaneously too much happening (in terms of chaotic onscreen action) and too little happening (in terms of forward narrative momentum). Altman spends so much time lingering on pointless details and unimportant subplots that the main thrust of the piece is overwhelmed. Furthermore, since the essence of Altman’s theme is that America is driven by such petty impulses as the desire for notoriety and the refusal to acknowledge harsh realities, the movie’s cynicism feels convenient, fashionable, and trite. After all, the same director had explored almost identical thematic terrain in his previous film, the far more effective Nashville (1975).

Buffalo Bill and the Indians, or Sitting Bull’s History Lesson: FUNKY

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975)

          Despite being one of the seminal dramas of the 1970s and an almost universally praised Oscar winner for Best Picture, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest has its detractors, not least of whom was the late Ken Kesey, who wrote the book upon which the film is based. Kesey, a counterculture legend who extrapolated the narrative from his experiences as a participant in LSD experiments at a military hospital, said he never saw the picture because the filmmakers informed him they were taking liberties with his story. Notwithstanding Kesey’s misgivings, Cuckoo’s Nest is an extraordinary piece of work that might not necessarily capture Kesey’s unique voice, but substitutes something of equal interest and power. Jack Nicholson plays R.P. McMurphy, a prison inmate who feigns insanity to dodge a work detail, then gets sent to a mental asylum for his trouble. Once there, he becomes the charismatic leader for a group of lost souls, uniting them against their common enemy: tyrannical Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher).
           Under the audacious and sensitive direction of Milos Forman, a Czech native who lost his parents in the Holocaust and fled Czechoslovakia during a violent communist takeover, Cuckoo’s Nest plays out as a profound metaphor about the hardship and necessity of fighting fascist regimes; McMurphy personifies the rebellious soul of the free populace while Ratched represents the heartless machine of the oppressive overmind. The mid-’70s were just the right moment for this intense counterculture statement, and what makes Cuckoo’s Nest so extraordinary is that it meshes its idealistic themes with raucous entertainment. Whenever McMurphy leads his fellow patients in mischief, he’s like a high-art version of the sort of anarchistic rabble-rousers Bill Murray played in his comedy heyday. This irresistible charm (both McMurphy’s and Nicholson’s) makes the downbeat path the story follows totally absorbing, just like the work of the splendid cast makes ensemble scenes intimate and vivid.
          Fletcher and Nicholson won well-deserved Oscars, and they’re matched by artists working in top form: Actors Brad Dourif and Will Sampson are heartbreaking as two key patients; composer Jack Nitzsche’s score is subtle and surprising; and the loose, documentary-style images by cinematographers Bill Butler and Haskell Wexler are indelible. Incidentally, Cuckoo’s Nest netted Michael Douglas his first Oscar, because he produced the film, and watch out for future Taxi costars Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd as two members of McMurphy’s merry band.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: OUTTA SIGHT

The White Buffalo (1977)

          The further producer Dino De Laurentiis stretched logic and taste in order to emulate the monster-on-the-loose success of Jaws (1975), the more demented his copycat movies became. The producer’s 1976 remake of King Kong made sense because it built upon an established brand and because special-effects technology had evolved since the release of the original Kong four decades previous; similarly, the producer’s 1977 killer-whale thriller Orca made sense because it was about a big fish with big jaws. But The White Buffalo, which is about exactly what the title suggests, is weird as hell from start to finish, not least because it’s hard to imagine De Laurentiis believing that audiences would be terrified by the prospect of a melanin-deficient grazing animal.
          The wackadoodle plot involves Wild Bill Hickcock (Charles Bronson) teaming up with Crazy Horse (Will Sampson)—no, really!—to pursue the demonic white buffalo that haunts Hickock’s dreams. Written by Richard Sale, who adapted his own novel, the story portrays Hickock (traveling under the alias James Otis) as a haunted man who spends much of his time hiding behind wrap-around sunglasses. Many nights, he wakes screaming and sweating because he envisions a white buffalo charging at him, so Hickock travels to the Black Hills on a visionquest. Along the way, he runs into a crusty prospector pal (Jack Warden), who claims to have seen the last living white buffalo and offers to guide Hickock toward the bleached beastie. Once these two venture into the wilderness, they cross paths with Crazy Horse, who has his own reasons for chasing the critter: The buffalo ravaged his village and killed his daughter, so Crazy Horse must kill the monster in order to set his daughter’s soul free.
          None of this makes much sense—especially since director J. Lee Thompson moves the story along so fast that plot twists stack up like the layers of a fever dream—but for aficionados of peculiar ’70s cinema, what really matters is the bizarre texture of this eminently watchable movie. Most of the monster scenes were shot on soundstages, leading to surreal nighttime sequences set in fake snowy forests, and the FX shots of the buffalo are so brazenly fake that they take on a kind of dreamlike power. (The gory sequence in which Crazy Horse’s village gets trampled is particularly disorienting.) Yet the creepiest element of the movie is unquestionably John Barry’s menacing score: As he did with De Laurentiis’ Kong remake, Barry uses sweeping string arrangements and bold horns to give a silly story gravitas. When the movie is really cooking, Barry’s rattling music and Thompson’s swerving camera moves add up to something quite potent. That said, it’s a shame the middle of the picture gets bogged down in subplots, with the titular terror kept offscreen for far too long until resurfacing during the epic climax.
          The oddness of The White Buffalo is accentuated by all-over-the-map acting: Bronson is characteristically grim; Sampson offers as dignified a performance as he can given the circumstances; and supporting players including John Carradine, Kim Novak, Slim Pickens, and Clint Walker contribute salty flavor. Thrown together, the disparate elements equal a truly strange film, even by the high weirdness standards of De Laurentiis’ other ’70s monster mashes. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

The White Buffalo: FREAKY