The Late Liz (1971)

Not every bad film manages to fail on multiple levels, but The Late Liz bombs as an alcoholism melodrama, a story of Christian faith, and a late-career showcase for faded Oscar winner Anne Baxter. Based on a book by Gert Behanna, who in real life credited God with saving her from booze, The Late Liz has the ugly visual style of a cheap TV movie, the stiff dramaturgy of a public service announcement, and the over-the-top messaging of a Sunday-morning sermon. Worse, Baxter is genuinely terrible here, cooing much of her dialogue coquettishly and bulging her eyes for emphasis during heavy scenes. Watching Baxter strut into the foreground or dramatically turn away from the camera suggests nothing more than a laughable soap-opera performance. That’s a shame, because she’s effective whenever she stops trying so hard, and she looks quite lovely except in scenes when she’s meant to appear bedraggled. Had Baxter opted for sincerity instead of flamboyance, she might have made this sketchy project palatable. Anyway, Baxter plays Liz Hatch, an upper-crust Californian whose drinking torpedoes two marriages and sends her rushing toward self-destruction until one of her sons, Peter (William Katt), returns from Vietnam as a devout Christian determined to share the good word with his mother. Katt plays the material so straight that he seems like a robot, and the great Jack Albertson is wasted in a supporting role as a kindly priest. Therefore Steve Forrest, of all people, gives the picture’s most vibrant turn, playing Liz’s second husband. Incidentally, those who dig camp will find much to enjoy here, thanks not only to Baxter’s overheated performance but also to the florid dialogue (“You’re not only a drunk, you’re a nymphomaniac!”). What’s more, Tonight Show regular Foster Brooks shows up in one scene to do his patented friendly-drunk routine.

The Late Liz: LAME

Night Chase (1970)

          David Janssen, the king of the pained facial expression, plays a different sort of fugitive in Night Chase, a somewhat compelling thriller that anticipates the premise of the Tom Cruise movie Collateral (2004), but follows through on the premise with a story that makes a whole lot more sense. Running 95 minutes, long by ’70s-telefilm standards, Night Chase gets repetitive and slow at times, so viewers who enjoy seeing vintage footage of Southern California will get more out of the experience than others. That said, the script is clear and efficient, Jack Starrett’s direction sets an understated tone that suits the material, and costar Yaphet Kotto’s performance is so loose and vivid that he greatly elevates the material. Ultimately, Night Chase isn’t consequential in terms of social relevance or themes, so it’s just a disposable thriller with welcome aspects of humanism. Nonetheless, with so many pointlessly nihilistic thrillers out there, the compassion infusing Night Chase makes watching the picture mildly edifying.

          As in Collateral, the story gets underway when a mysterious white man flags down a black cab driver for a ride. Specifically, Adrian (Janssen) grabs a taxi from the Los Angeles International Airport after his flight gets cancelled. Ernie (Kotto) gets the fare, and he’s surprised when Adrian asks for a 200-mile ride to San Diego. Once the men are in close quarters, Ernie catches disturbing clues—blood on Adrian’s shirt, skittishness whenever police cars pass the cab. Eventually, it emerges that Adrian shot a man in Baltimore, and he’s on the way to Mexico, where he plans to use his gun again.

          The remaining details are best discovered as the story unfolds, but the gist is that Adrian feels tortured by not only what he’s already done but by what he’s contemplating doing next. Although saying that Janssen’s performance is infused with nuance would require considerable overstatement, he mimics anguish well, and his intensity is sufficiently persuasive that it’s believable when he makes everyone around him nervous. Kotto’s work exists on a different level. At the beginning of the picture, he conveys affability and world-weariness in equal measure, and as the story progresses, he hits notes of despair, heroism, and terror. Night Chase is yet another reminder of his incredible power and versatility. While the film is mostly a two-hander, Elisha Cook Jr., William Katt, and Victoria Vetri all do strong work in small supporting roles.

Night Chase: FUNKY

First Love (1977)

          The title of this romantic drama is slightly misleading, because the story depicts a relationship between two college students who have prior sexual experience. The nuance, therefore, is that the story dramatizes the first time the boy in this particular boy-meets-girl equation experiences true love. Yet even that doesn’t fully capture the tone of the picture, since the other major element of the story is the girl’s capriciousness, which stems from her simultaneous involvement with a man her father’s age. And while the picture is generally intelligent and serious, First Love still feels insubstantial. Even though the movie is acted with great sincerity and directed with a certain measure of elegance, everything just sort of happens, without any real sense of consequence.

          The hero of the piece is Elgin Smith (William Katt), an earnest and sweet young man who seems distracted from his coursework and from his part-time restaurant job because he’s preoccupied with practicing soccer moves and reading romantic books. His next-door neighbor, David (John Heard), is a swinger whose on-again/off-again girlfriend, Shelly (Beverly D’Angelo), wants to sleep with Elgin. Alas, Elgin is waiting for the real thing, having been underwhelmed by past sexual involvements. Enter Caroline (Susan Dey), with whom Elgin falls in love at first sight. Despite being aware that she’s involved with an older man, John (Robert Loggia), Elgin successfully woos Caroline, and they become a couple. Then, after an idyllic period of sex, sex, and more sex, Caroline reveals her demons, which threaten the relationship.

          Considering that First Love is an intimate character piece—and that it was based on a novel (Harold Brodkey’s Sentimental Education)—it’s surprising how indistinct the characterizations seem. Elgin waffles between naïve and worldly, changing whichever way the narrative wind blows, and Caroline teeters between self-centered and tormented. None of this feels like delicate articulation of prismatic individuals; rather, it feels like the filmmakers grabbing whichever element seems handy from scene to scene. Still, First Love is pleasant enough to watch. Directed by Joan Darling, a sitcom veteran making her feature debut (unusual for a woman in ’70s Hollywood), the picture has a glossy look right out of a Renaissance painting, and the acting is better than the material deserves, especially by supporting players D’Angelo and Heard. Plus, for those who enjoy a grown-up approach to onscreen sexuality, the love scenes are lengthy and mildly sensual. The picture also includes a very ’70s post-coital chat between Elgin and Caroline about female orgasms.

First Love: FUNKY

Carrie (1976)

          It might be exaggerating to call Carrie a good film, since it’s unabashedly campy and lurid, but there’s no arguing with results—among other things, the movie earned two Oscar nominations, elevated director Brian De Palma to A-list status, turned leading lady Sissy Spacek into a star, initiated an epic relationship between Hollywood and novelist Stephen King, and became one of the most popular horror movies of the ’70s. Considering that the flick is so trashy it features beaver shots beneath the opening credits and culminates with a blood-soaked teenager using telekinesis to slaughter her classmates, that’s quite a list of accolades.

          Based on King’s first novel, Carrie tells the sad story of Carrie White (Spacek), a misfit American teenager so ignorant to the ways of the world that she freaks out upon getting her first period while showering in the school gym. Her vicious classmates, led by instigator Chris Hargensen (Nancy Allen), taunt Carrie mercilessly, pelting her with sanitary napkins, so Carrie is excused from school for the rest of the day. Once she returns home, we discover the source of Carrie’s troubles—her lunatic mother, Margaret White (Piper Laurie), is a Bible-thumping abuser who considers sexual development sinful and tortures Carrie with long imprisonments in a closet.

          As Carrie reels from the shower incident and her troubles at home, she discovers the ability to move objects with her mind. Meanwhile, Chris is banned from the upcoming prom—indirect punishment for tormenting Carrie—so she plans grotesque revenge. Adding a final thread to the story is Carrie’s sympathetic classmate Sue (Amy Irving), who persuades her dreamboat boyfriend, Tommy (William Katt), to take Carrie to the prom. One bucket of pig blood later, it all goes to hell.

          De Palma and screenwriter Lawrence D. Cohen took relatively few liberties with King’s narrative, so they delivered his signature combination of gore and pathos intact, and Carrie zooms along at tremendous speed. Excepting two ill-conceived comedic sequences (both of which feature cringe-inducing music), Carrie is laser-focused on developing empathy for the protagonist and setting up a Grand Guignol climax. Generally speaking, Carrie is an efficient movie, and some of the picture’s elements exist on an elevated plane. De Palma’s trademark tracking shots manifest in full force, for instance (though the shots are akin to guitar solos in overwrought hard-rock songs, flamboyance for the sake of flamboyance). Additionally, De Palma uses the supporting cast like an orchestra, getting exactly the right single note each from Allen, Irving, Katt, Laurie, and others (including Betty Buckley and John Travolta).

          Spacek’s Oscar-nominated performance holds Carrie together, since her character’s emotional journey drives the story. As played by Spacek, Carrie is fragile during early scenes, ferocious when assaulting her enemies, and poignant once she realizes the tragic fate to which she has been consigned. De Palma’s ending represents his biggest departure from King’s book, and while the film’s concise denouement is more cinematic than the protracted conclusion of King’s narrative, it’s a bit much, right up to the notorious “gotcha” coda. Once again, however, there’s no arguing with results; Carrie made such an impression that it earned a Broadway adaptation in 1988, a low-budget movie sequel in 1999, and big-budget movie remakes in 2002 and 2013.

Carrie: GROOVY

Butch and Sundance: The Early Days (1979)

          Even though a proper sequel to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969) was impossible, given the film’s definitive ending, 20th Century-Fox made three halting attempts to exploit the film’s popularity. In 1974, Elizabeth Montgomery starred in the TV movie Mrs. Sundance, imagining what happened to the Sundance Kid’s paramour, Etta Place, after the events of the original film. Montgomery was a substitute for Katharine Ross, who played Etta in the 1969 movie, but Ross reprised her original role in a second TV movie about Etta’s adventures, 1976’s Wanted: The Sundance Woman. Then, in 1979, Fox took the prequel route by casting new actors in the roles Paul Newman and Robert Redford made famous. Butch and Sundance: The Early Days depicts youthful misadventures including the formation of the bandits’ notorious gang (which was known as the Wild Bunch in real life but called the Hole-in-the-Wall gang in the 1969 movie).

          The accent for Butch and Sundance: The Early Days is on comedy, with lots of goofy sight gags like the outlaws’ use of a horse-drawn hearse as a getaway vehicle. As with most prequels, however, Butch and Sundance feels unnecessary, since it’s not as if audiences exited the first film with lots of unanswered questions. Furthermore, although director Richard Lester and his leading actors do the best they can with the bum hand they’re dealt, it would have been impossible for anyone to recapture the magic that director George Roy Hill caught on film during Newman and Redford’s first onscreen pairing.

          Lester, whose farcical Musketeer movies of the mid-’70s made him a logical choice to helm this wiseacre project, stages many scenes well, and he conjures an easygoing camaraderie between stars Tom Berenger (as Butch) and William Katt (as Sundance). Yet the movie’s script, by Allan Burns, is episodic, inconsequential, and meandering. (William Goldman, who won an Oscar for writing Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, served as one of the prequel’s producers but did not officially contribute to the screenplay.) Berenger does an okay job of mimicking Newman’s rascally charm, and Katt efficiently evokes Redford’s sun-kissed cantankerousness. Unfortunately, the story they’re telling is so thin there’s even a scene providing the origin for the Sundance Kid’s moustache. Thanks to the actors’ amiable work and Lester’s deft orchestration of onscreen mayhem, Butch and Sundance is pleasant viewing but nothing more.

Butch and Sundance: The Early Days: FUNKY

Big Wednesday (1978)

          Although John Milius is closely associated with cinematic ultraviolence, as a screenwriter (Apocalypse Now) and as a director (Conan the Barbarian), one of his most assured endeavors in both capacities is the lyrical surfing drama Big Wednesday, which he cowrote with lifelong surfer Dennis Aaberg. Wonderfully pretentious from beginning to end, the picture uses the interwoven adventures of three surf-crazy friends as a metaphor for self-realization, with human drama unfurling across years defined by seismic social change. Big Wednesday is a grandiose symphony of destiny, masculinity, and transcendance, with poetic speechifying and taut musculature the dominant instruments. In other words, it’s pure Milius, only without the beheadings.

          Set primarily in Malibu, the picture begins in 1962, when three macho pals live carefree lives of chasing girls and riding curls. They are levelheaded Jack (William Katt), unhinged Leroy (Gary Busey), and reckless Matt (Jan-Michael Vincent). Surfing is the center of their lives, and Milius uses the endless blue of the Pacific to express how these young men see their lives stretching to infinity. Yet Milius also employs the danger of testing oneself against the ocean’s power to underscore life’s ephemeral quality—Jack strives to use time well, Leroy defines himself by cheating death, and Matt courts his own demise, as if the sureness of mortality robs existence of its sweetness. Despite the heaviosity running through the picture, moments of levity emerge, sometimes in the form of hormone-driven tomfoolery and sometimes in the form of speeches that are quintessentially Milius. “I like fights,” says Leroy, nicknamed “The Masochist” by his pals. “I’ve dove through windows, I’ve eaten light bulbs, I like sharks, any kind of blood. If you gave me a gun, I’d shoot you in the face just to see what it looked like when the bullet hit.” That’s Milius, ever the voice of maniacs with twinkles in their eyes. (As a side note, Leroy mostly disappears from the movie soon after this speech—it’s as if Milius had nothing left to say about the character.)

          Early scenes of brawling and carousing work better than a long stretch during which the boys use creative lies to dodge the draft, but the movie eventually finds its groove—perhaps too much so—during an epic climax confronting the friends with the biggest waves of their lives, to the accompaniment of histrionic scoring by Basil Poledouris. From start to finish, the picture benefits from the great Bruce Surtees’s ominous photography (with significant assistance from the second unit), and the film’s principal actors contribute impassioned work despite the limitations of their skillsets. It’s poignant to see Busey and Vincent in their gleaming youth, given the damage ensuing years inflicted on both actors, and Katt complements them with the earnest Redford Lite vibe that, one year later, got him cast as a younger version of Redford’s signature character in Butch and Sundance: The Early Days.

          Ultimately, Milius’s choice to frame the movie as a Big Statement ensures the ocean is the most clearly defined individual in the film, but at least the ocean gives a hell of a performance—some of the surfing footage (captured in California and Hawaii) has terrifying power.

Big Wednesday: GROOVY