The Mephisto Waltz (1971)

          Despite falling well short of greatness, The Mephisto Waltz is an above-average supernatural-horror flick with evocative atmosphere, strong acting, and a unique hook—it’s built around the world of classical music. It should also be noted that the movie stars Jacqueline Bisset at her most ravishingly beautiful, so the eye-candy quotient is considerable. At the beginning of the movie, we meet angsty Myles Clarkson (Alan Alda), a mediocre pianist relegated to interviewing better players in his role as a music journalist. Accompanied by his wife, Paula (Bisset), Myles travels to a sprawling estate for an audience with Duncan Ely (Curt Jurgens), a legendary virtuoso. Although Paula gets a bad vibe off Duncan and his twentysomething daughter, Roxanne (Barbara Parkins), Myles quickly falls under Duncan’s spell—because Duncan claims he can train Myles to become a world-class pianist. It turns out the Elys are Satan worshippers, and Duncan has designs on U-Hauling his soul into Myles’ healthy young body, since Duncan is terminally ill but determined to preserve his genius.

          It’s not giving anything away to say that Duncan succeeds, because the real thrills begin when Paula starts to realize her husband isn’t her husband anymore. Produced by prolific TV guy Quinn Martin (whose output included The Fugitive and The Streets of San Francisco), the picture is capably directed by Paul Wendkos from a script by Ben Maddow (which was adapted from Fred Mustard Stewart’s novel). The execution is stylish even when the story gets convoluted and silly, and the film benefits tremendously from spooky music by composer Jerry Goldsmith. Additionally, the locations are consistently credible, especially the shadowy expanses of the Ely mansion. Yet it’s the acting that really propels the piece. Alda is poignantly narcissistic as Myles, and then appropriately aloof once Duncan’s spirit inhabits Myles’ body, while Jurgens makes a strong impression as a domineering diva during his few scenes. Parkins, whose dark beauty complements Bisset’s natural look, has fun playing a scheming witch, and Bisset lends a certain measure of emotional credibility to her various scenes of anguish and panic. Best of all, the movie twists and turns toward a perverse ending that almost justifies the movie’s overlong, 115-minute running time.

The Mephisto Waltz: GROOVY

Every ’70s Movie is Two Years Old Today!

So far, over 815 movies have been reviewed on Every ’70s Movie. It’s hard to say how long it will take to complete this ambitious project, but even if the one-post-per-day pace continues, there should be plenty of Me Decade grooviness for years to come. At present, I’ve identified approximately 2,700 titles. While the mainstays of this blog are American feature films released between January 1970 and December 1979 (rest assured, I’ll get to each and every one if it’s at all humanly possible), I’ve also broadened the view to include selected documentaries (including each ’70s Oscar winner for Best Documentary Feature), selected English-language foreign films (i.e., key English and Australian pictures), as well as the most important foreign-language films released during the ’70s. Plus, of course, I’m covering acclaimed and cult-favorite TV movies, since the telefilm genre had its heyday during the ’70s. In the future, I also plan to introduce pictures I call “Honorary ’70s Movies,” 100 or so features released in 1980 and 1981 that were either filmed in the ’70s and/or hew so closely to the ’70s aesthetic that they continue the ethos of the decade (think Airplane!, The Elephant Man, The Empire Strikes Back, Superman II, etc.). Thanks very much to everyone who reads the blog regularly, and it’s been great meeting some of you in the “Comments” section. Your reactions are always welcome! Also welcome—hint, hint!—are donations to help me track down obscure titles. The PayPal donation button is on the upper-right hand side of the blog, just under my profile.

The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder (1974)

 

Vietnam-vet movies came in all shapes and sizes during the ’70s, but it’s nonetheless startling to realize that someone thought PTSD was a suitable subject for light comedy in 1974, when the war was still raging. The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder takes place primarily at a VA hospital in Los Angeles, where mischievously charming ex-soldier Julius Vrooder (Timothy Bottoms) lives in a mental ward with several other vets suffering from shellshock. Able-bodied but emotionally fragile, Julius spends his days cavorting around the hospital campus, pulling childish pranks on his doctors and flirting with sensitive nurse Zanni (Barbara Hershey). Accentuating just how disconnected Julius is from reality, he even has a secret underground lair that he’s created across the street from the campus, complete with electricity that he’s illegally siphoning from the city’s power grid. (Never mind the logical questions of how Julius got the equipment and free time needed to build his fortress.) As the story progresses, Julius tries to woo Zanni away from her other suitor—Julius’ uptight shrink, of course—and he tries to evade municipal authorities who want to find out who’s stealing their electricity. And that’s basically the whole movie, excepting a few inconsequential subplots. Among the film’s many problems is the fact that we’re supposed to sympathize with Julius’ unique plight even though he doesn’t seem especially unwell—he treats his hospital stay like a vacation from responsibility, faking seizures or sharing sad war stories whenever he wants sympathy. Were it not for Bottoms’ inherent likeability, Julius would be insufferable; as is, the character is merely uninteresting. Similarly, the fact that the shrink isn’t a formidable romantic rival precludes any tension in the love story—Zanni seems to worship Julius unconditionally, so the resolution of the triangle is a foregone conclusion. As directed by the efficient Arthur Hiller, The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder is too innocuous to dislike, but it’s also far too vapid to make a significant impression.

The Crazy World of Julius Vrooder: FUNKY

Ice Castles (1978)

          Even though its leading performance is terrible and its storyline is laughably contrived, Ice Castles holds a special place in the hearts of many women who came of age in the late ’70s, because it delivers a fresh spin on that most beloved of fables—the princess who finds her true love. In this case, the princess is innocent, 16-year-old Midwesterner Alexis Winston (Lynn-Holly Johnson), a promising figure skater who’s considered too old for serious competition. She lives a sheltered life with her overprotective father, widower Marcus Winston (Tom Skerritt), and she worries what will happen when she’s separated from her directionless boyfriend, Nick Peterson (Robby Benson), who loves her but resents her potential. Predictably, however, when Alexis performs well at a local competition and catches the eye of a top-level trainer, things change dramatically. Leaving her father and Nick behind, Alexis enters the high-stakes world of Olympic-level skating. Dazzled by the lights of the big city, Alexis even succumbs to the romantic advances of an ambitious TV reporter who’s about 15 years her senior. And then, just when it seems Alexis is doomed to lose her identity, she loses her sight in a skating accident. Retreating into self-pity, Alexis sulks until Nick proves his worth by forcing her to see life anew—“through the eyes of love,” in the words of the film’s maudlin theme song.
          Ice Castles is schmaltzy in the extreme, complete with a saccharine Marvin Hamlisch score, but the movie goes down smoother than you might expect. Skerritt and Colleen Dewhurst (who plays Alexis’ hometown trainer) eschew sentimentality with their grown-up performances, while Benson leavens his moony adoration with tough-love dialogue. It also helps, a lot, that cinematographer Bill Butler (of Jaws fame) shoots the movie like a slick sports documentary instead of a glossy tearjerker. Alas, Johnson’s leading performance is the film’s weakest element. While her skating is fine (she was an Ice Capades performer before becoming an actress), Johnson seems utterly lost when called upon to express complex emotions. As a result, Ice Castles has a major vacuum at its center, neutralizing many of the good efforts by costars and behind-the-scenes talents; the movie works, but just barely. FYI, Ice Castles writer-director Donald Wrye, whose career mostly comprises made-for-TV projects, remade this movie in 2010, though the second version failed to generate much excitement.

Ice Castles: FUNKY

FM (1978)

          Had it been made with more verve—and a lot less Hollywood polish—FM could easily have become one of the great rock & roll movies, because the plot is a simple tribute to the rebel spirit of youth-oriented music. When corporate overlords try to force crass advertisements onto the ragtag DJ’s at L.A.’s top rock station, the jocks barricade the doors, take over the station, and broadcast commercial-free tunes until a riot breaks out between kids who want to groove on the music and cops who want to shut the party down. And because somebody working on the picture clearly had heavy music-industry connections, the film is jammed with genuine rock tunes from the era: The picture’s slinky theme song was written and performed by Steely Dan; the score comprises songs by acts including Boston, the Eagles, and Queen; and Jimmy Buffet and Linda Ronstadt perform onscreen. Unfortunately, the music is so good (and so prevalent) that it overwhelms the slight story. Additionally, while FM should’ve been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am quickie, it sprawls across a lugubrious 104 minutes.
          The hero of the piece is Jeff Dugan (Michael Brandon), an idealistic program director who pushes Q-SKY to the top of the L.A. market. His success draws the attention of Regis Lamar (Tom Tarpey), an ambitious salesman with Q-SKY’s parent company. When Lamar insists that Dugan run ads for the Army, Dugan quits, so his cronies show solidarity by staging the aforementioned occupation. Ezra Sacks’ screenplay never takes flight, wasting the considerable potential of the premise, and the film gets bogged down in unnecessary discursions, like a long sequence of narcissistic DJ Eric Swan (Martin Mull) melting down on the air. Casting is another problem, because while Brandon is smooth, he doesn’t have the star quality needed to play a charismatic ringleader, and supporting players including Eileen Brennan, Alex Karras, James Keach, and Cleavon Little are underused. However, FM gets points for atmosphere. Watching the physical operation of an old-school radio station is fascinating, and the cast features several real-life rock-music personalities. FYI, FM was the only theatrical feature directed by the great cinematographer John A. Alonzo, so the movie looks slick—although Alonzo’s gifts clearly didn’t extend to dramaturgy.

FM: FUNKY

Hard Times (1975)

          A lean action drama about an enigmatic tough guy who drifts into the lives of several low-rent characters and has a profound impact, Hard Times borrows a lot, stylistically and thematically, from the cinematic iconography that director John Ford and actor John Wayne developed together. Making his directorial debut, Walter Hill emulates Ford’s elegant but unfussy visual style; similarly, leading man Charles Bronson deomonstrates tight-lipped adherence to a manly code of honor. So, even though there’s a lot of macho hokum on display here—we’re never particularly worried that the hero will lose any of the bare-knuckle boxing matches he enters—Hill effectively taps into the primal themes that made the Ford-Wayne pictures of the past so enjoyable.

          Bronson stars as Chaney, a drifter who wanders into Depression-era Louisiana and encounters Speed (James Coburn), a fast-talking fight promoter. Speed belongs to a network of men who stage illicit bare-knuckle boxing brawls, and Chaney offers his services as a new fighter—quickly proving his mettle by dropping his first opponent with one punch. Although Chaney is a good 20 years older than most men working the ring, he’s in spectacular physical condition and he sparks tremendous curiosity by withholding details about his background. Speed reluctantly agrees to Chaney’s terms (management without a long-term commitment), and Chaney soon lands on the radar of Chick Gandi (Michael McGuire), a successful entrepreneur who lords over the New Orleans fight circuit. Exacerbated by Speed’s bad habit of accruing gambling debts, Chaney’s rise sets the stage for an inevitable showdown between Chaney and Gandi’s chosen fighter.

          Rewriting an original script by Bryan Gindoff and Bruce Henstell, Hill employs incredibly terse dialogue (in one of Bronson’s best scenes, he only says one word: “dumb”), and the director keeps motivations obvious and pragmatic—a Spartan approach that suits the Depression milieu. Bronson benefits tremendously from Hill’s restraint, since the actor is more impressive simply occupying the camera frame than spewing reams of dialogue.  Hill wisely contrasts Bronson with a pair of actors who speak beautifully: Coburn is charming and pathetic as a self-destructive schemer, and Strother Martin is wonderfully eccentric as a drug-addicted doctor enlisted to support Chaney during fights. Bronson’s real-life wife, Jill Ireland, appears somewhat inconsequentially as Chaney’s no-nonsense love interest, though Hard Times is a such a guy movie that all the female players are sidelined. Ultimately, Hard Times is somewhat predictable and shallow—but it’s executed so well those shortcomings don’t matter much.

Hard Times: GROOVY

Tommy (1975)

          Interesting as case study in what happens when two artists from different mediums bring their equally strong visions to bear on the same project, Tommy is eccentric British filmmaker Ken Russell’s visualization of the Who’s famous “rock opera” LP, which is arguably the crowning achievement of Who songwriter Pete Townshend’s career. Townshend’s ambitious musical cycle uses rock songs to tell a complete narrative, and the strain of this massive storytelling effort shows in the record’s inconsistency; for every incisive moment like “The Acid Queen,” sung from the perspective of a drug-peddling prostitute, there are clumsily literal tunes along the lines of the paired set “Go to the Mirror!” and “Smash the Mirror.” It’s commendable that Townshend maintained his aesthetic focus, but not every song is a winner. Furthermore, the narrative is ludicrous: After a young man is rendered blind, deaf, and dumb through melodramatic circumstances, he becomes a pinball champion and then a messiah for young followers who are inspired by his surmounting of physical challenges and his eventual recovery of his senses.
          Predictably, the storyline is even sillier in filmic form, because Russell illustrates many of Townshend’s overwrought images literally—and when Russell takes liberties, he adds childish flourishes like the scene in which Tommy’s mother (Ann-Margaret) gets hosed down with geysers of baked beans while writhing in sexual delight. Plus, the less said about Russell’s infatuation with oversized props and phallic symbols, the better. In fact, Russell’s apparent desire to live up to his reputation for outrageousness is Tommy’s greatest strength and its greatest weakness—adapted by a less whimsical director, Tommy might have become unrelentingly grim, but at the same time, Russell’s excess makes it impossible to take the movie seriously, because it’s all way too camp.

          Still, Russell creates a handful of memorable scenes, and the combination of lively music, offbeat casting, and speedy pacing keeps Tommy moving along. Who singer Roger Daltrey plays Tommy as an adult, relying on commitment and intensity instead of dramatic skill, and the other members of the Who lurk on the movie’s periphery, with the exception of madman drummer Keith Moon, who plays Tommy’s pedophile uncle. Ann-Margret is quite terrible as Tommy’s mother, overacting ridiculously and warbling her songs, though Oliver Reed gives an effectively seedy performance a Tommy’s scumbag stepfather. Jack Nicholson’s brief appearance as a doctor seeking to treat Tommy’s afflictions represents pointless stunt casting, but fellow guest stars Elton John and Tina Turner make important contributions in their supporting roles.

          John, of course, sings Tommy’s most famous song, “Pinball Wizard,” so effectively that John’s cover of the tune became a chart hit; similarly, his onscreen appearance in a cartoonish costume echoes the performer’s over-the-top ’70s stage persona. Turner, despite being photographed grotesquely with fisheye lenses and such, rips the screen apart with her wailing, wild number as the Acid Queen, providing a go-for-broke energy the rest of the movie fails to match.

Tommy: FUNKY

Duck, You Sucker (1971)

          Unless you’ve got a weakness for spaghetti Westerns and/or the florid style of Italian director Sergio Leone, the man who more or less invented the genre, you might need NoDoz to make it through all 157 minutes of Duck, You Sucker, the last spaghetti Western that Leone directed. (More specifically, this is the last such picture he completely directed; Leone helmed parts of two subsequent entries in the genre without taking onscreen credit.) Alternately titled A Fistful of Dynamite and available in several different versions, some with running times as short as two hours, Duck, You Sucker features the filmmaker’s signature tropes of an intense friendship/rivalry between violent men; big-canvas battle scenes involving explosions and hordes of bullet-ridden extras; pretentious allusions to political ideals; and a kooky musical score by the great Ennio Morricone.

          There’s no question that many of these elements produced timeless cinema in the ’60s, notably The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (1966), and there’s no question that generations of fans consider Leone’s operatic approach to frontier morality intoxicating. For me, alas, Duck, You Sucker is dull and excessive. Beyond the interminable running time, the film is built around a ridiculous performance by Rod Steiger, who is not only absurdly miscast as a Mexican revolutionary/robber but also can’t seem to decide whether he’s in a campy comedy or a dour drama. Flailing his hands like he’s spoofing Latinos, barking dialogue as if he’s playing to the cheap seats, and swaggering like he’s the biggest stud south of the border, Steiger is a cartoon from start to finish. Even though he has a few incisive moments, pantomiming in scenes when his character can’t (or won’t) find the right words, he’s exhausting to watch.

          Steiger’s costar, James Coburn, fares somewhat better in the movie’s other leading role. Playing an Irish saboteur hiding out in Mexico, Coburn is smoothly sociopathic, wearing a duster lined with sticks of dynamite as well as a canteen filled with nitro. Since Coburn plays a man haunted by a betrayal that happened back in his homeland (the details of which are revealed in flashbacks), the actor gets to portray a character instead of a caricature. He’s not exactly dimensional, per se, but he’s a hell of a lot easier to take than Steiger.

          And what about the story, you might ask? Well, if you’ve been down the spaghetti-Western road before, you already know the story is irrelevant—true to the genre’s norms, the narrative of Duck, You Sucker is alternately bewildering and idiotic. The gist is that after Steiger’s character cajoles Coburn’s character into helping with a robbery, they get enmeshed in a revolution—the familiar reluctant-antiheroes routine. However, the narrative is secondary to the style of the piece, since Leone unleashes all of his razzle-dazzle gimmicks—outlandish plot twists, sweaty close-ups, tricky tracking shots, visual jokes, and so on. Therefore, how much you enjoy this picture depends entirely on your appetite for Leone’s comic-book silliness.

Duck, You Sucker: FUNKY

There’s a Girl in My Soup (1970)

          Adapted from a hit play about a middle-aged lothario in swinging London who exploits the Sexual Revolution by sleeping with every young woman who falls for his pickup lines, There’s a Girl in My Soup is a mildly entertaining and mildly insightful sex farce that benefits from exceedingly nimble leading actors. In fact, the movie’s appeal stems almost entirely from the presence of British comedy icon Peter Sellers, who plays the lothario, and American funny girl Goldie Hawn, who plays, well, the girl in his soup—because the underlying material isn’t funny or purposeful enough to impress on its own merits. When the story begins, TV personality Robert Danvers (Sellers) is enjoying his fame immensely, seducing nearly every attractive woman he encounters. One evening, however, he meets an ebullient American named Marion (Hawn), who agrees to go home with Robert because she’s trying to get away from her two-timing musician boyfriend, Jimmy (Nicky Henson). Robert thinks he’s got it made, since Marion is a sexy little blonde, but it turns out she’s got attitude to burn. She derisively laughs at his pickup lines, mocks his age, and shames him into feeling guilty about wanting to use her.

          Relenting from his seduction, Robert is forced to engage with Marion as a person, and he soon falls under her offbeat spell. Meantime, she sees glimmers of decency behind his sex-crazed façade. Yet just when it seems like the story is about to head down the interesting path of a soul mate shaking Robert free of his pretensions, the characters become lovers and Robert begins entertaining notions of marriage. Compounded by the presence of a disappointingly flat ending, this left turn into domestic melodrama makes There’s a Girl in My Soup feel quite ordinary. Worse, the jokes aren’t particularly memorable. Sellers’ send-up of smoothies is amusing—his catchphrase, “My God, but you’re lovely,” is cringe-worthy—and Hawn’s eroticized dizziness has its charms. Somehow, though, their scenes never catch fire. There’s a Girl in My Soup gets points for presenting Marion as a fully formed person instead of a brainless sex object, but beyond that, the film’s virtues are few and modest.

There’s a Girl in My Soup: FUNKY

Sky Riders (1976)

          While it’s not much of a movie, Sky Riders is novel in two regards—it’s built around the sport of hang-gliding, and it contains one of the longest action scenes you’ll ever encounter. In fact, the first half-hour is merely preamble for a rescue mission that unfolds more or less in real time throughout the remainder of the picture. So, if you can trudge through 30 minutes of small talk and do without nuances like clearly defined characters and memorable dialogue, you’ll be rewarded with a solid hour of fighting and flying. Set in Greece, the movie begins at the estate of American industrialist Jonas Bracken (Robert Culp). While Jonas is away on business one morning, a group of terrorists breaks into his compound and kidnaps Jonas’ wife, Ellen (Susannah York), and the Brackens’ two children. Once Jonas is informed of the crime, he’s forced to work with a rigid cop named Inspector Nikolidis (Charles Aznavour), who seems more concerned with capturing the perpetrators than rescuing hostages. The X-factor in the story is Jim McCabe (James Coburn), Ellen’s ex-husband and the biological father of the Brackens’ oldest child. Vaguely introduced as some sort of international criminal/smuggler/spy, Jim decides the police aren’t moving fast enough, so he uses underworld contacts to mount a speedy investigation.

          Jim soon discovers the Brackens are being held in a remote, abandoned monastery that’s perched atop a mountain and accessible by only one road—in essence, a fortress with perfect natural defense. Eyeballing the location in person, Jim gets an idea when he sees birds flying around—so he tracks down a group of American hang-glider pilots, who perform a traveling-circus act featuring aerial stunts, and offers them a pile of cash to serve as his personal airborne commando unit. Obviously, the people behind Sky Riders had to twist their story in knots to justify the hang-gliding gimmick, but once the movie gets cooking, it’s all good—with composer Lalo Schifrin’s exciting music leading the way, vivid images of hang-glider pilots zooming toward the fortress, and then trying to escape amid a barrage of gunfire, create genuine excitement. (Coburn gets extra credit for performing a few jaw-dropping stunts, like hanging off the skids of a flying helicopter.) So, while Sky Riders offers virtually nothing of substance—although York conveys intensity during brief scenes depicting her captivity—the action is consistently colorful and dynamic.

Sky Riders: FUNKY

Rock ’n’ Roll High School (1979)

          Goofy and irreverent, Rock ’n’ Roll High School playfully updates the youth-run-wild ethos of ’50s teen movies. Built around a girl’s obsession with punk-rock slobs the Ramones—who appear in the film as themselves, mostly during performance scenes—the picture conveys an exaggerated vision of that thrilling moment in life when nothing matters more than music, rebellion, and romance. Better still, the movie is funny as hell, though not in a laugh-out-loud sort of way; rather, the flick’s relentless assault of stupid jokes (with a few genuinely clever gags thrown in for good measure) creates a frenetic, party-like atmosphere that’s almost impossible to resist.

          The heroine of the tale is a teenager named Riff—or, as she calls herself, “Riff Randell, rock ’n’ roller.” As played by the endearing P.J. Soles, Riff is a wild child who’s never met a rule she didn’t want to break. Therefore, when Riff starts getting hassled by Miss Evelyn Togar (Mary Woronov), the psychotic new principal of Riff’s school, a showdown is inevitable. The feather-light plot involves Riff’s quest to get tickets for an upcoming Ramones concert so she can show the band some songs she’s written for them; meanwhile, Togar uses every resource at her disposal to keep Riff from realizing her dream.

          Director Allan Arkush—abetted by his fellow maniacs in Roger Corman’s junk-movie chop-shop—flits around like a honeybee between various subplots, each more outlandish than the last. For instance, Clint Howard plays Eaglebauer, a grown-up hustler running an elaborate business out of a men’s room—for the right fee, he’’ll supply students with advice, dates, drugs, whatever. There’s also a sweet love story involving two nerds. Arkush and co. cram the movie with sight gags that bridge the old-school schtick of Mel Brooks and the insanity of later films like Airplane! (1980). Examples include the tomahawk-wielding Indian lurking near a line of ticket buyers—he’s a scalper, get it?—and the whimsical dream sequence of the Ramones performing in and around Riff’s bedroom, featuring a shot of bass player Dee Dee Ramone rocking out in Riff’s shower while the water’s running.

           All of this is delivered with stick-it-to-the-man insouciance, so even if Rock ’n’ Roll High School is dumb and shallow, there’s an edifying central theme related to the importance of treating kids with respect. Plus, how can anyone dislike a movie containing the line, “Do your parents know you’re Ramones?” Produced on a miniscule budget, Rock ’n’ Roll High School has deservedly gained cult-favorite status over the years, and the makers of the original film should not be held responsible for the existence of the 1991 sequel Rock ’n’ Roll High School Forever, which stars (shudder) Corey Feldman.

Rock ’n’ Roll High School: GROOVY

No Deposit, No Return (1976)

Although it’s basically harmless, No Deposit, No Return is hard to praise for many reasons. Firstly, the movie represents the Walt Disney Productions style of inoffensive storytelling run amok—the movie contorts itself to ensure that every character is likeable except for one minor villain, thus eradicating narrative conflict. Worse, these plot contrivances cause the movie to sprawl over 112 meandering minutes, and the film’s premise is far too thin to support the running time. So, even though the picture’s performances are generally fine and the production values are respectable, No Deposit, No Return is tiresome. When the movie begins, spunky young siblings Tracy (Kim Richards) and Jay (Brad Savage) learn their mother, a magazine editor, won’t be joining them as expected for vacation during the kids’ break from boarding school. Instead, the children are being sent to stay with their super-rich grandfather, J.W. Osborne (David Niven), who detests their company. Since the feeling is mutual, the kids run away, ending up in a cab with inept robbers Bert (Don Knotts) and Duke (Darren McGavin). The enterprising urchins blackmail the crooks into “kidnapping” them—in exchange for part of the ransom the kids plan to demand from J.W., the crooks agree to hide the kids in their lair for a period of time. Meanwhile, J.W. is aware of everything that’s happening, so he lets the kids stay “kidnapped” rather than intervening. Slapstick ensues, with a side of gooey sentiment. When listing this movie’s plot problems, it’s hard to know where to begin. Bert and Duke are master criminals whom the police desperately want to catch, and yet they’re also boobs who never actually steal anything? The kids found the only two criminals in the world who like babysitting? J.W. would rather let his grandchildren stay with strangers than tolerate their company? You get the idea. Knotts, McGavin, and Niven do their best, given the shoddy material, while Richards and Savage are palatable as Disney kids go, but the movie is so absurdly contrived that it ends up feeling more like a Disney knockoff than actual Mouse House product.

No Deposit, No Return: LAME

Hustle (1975)

          An admirable but not entirely successful attempt at transplanting classic film-noir themes into a hip ’70s milieu, this downbeat detective thriller features the peculiar pairing of delicate Gallic beauty Catherine Deneuve and suave Deep South stud Burt Reynolds. The fact that these actors don’t exist in the same cinematic universe reflects the many clashing tonalities director Robert Aldrich brings to Hustle. After smoothly blending comedy and drama in an earlier Reynolds movie, The Longest Yard (1974), Aldrich tries to do too many things here, because Hustle aspires to be a tragedy, a whodunit, a commentary on sexual politics, and more. Since Aldrich was generally at his best making unpretentious pulp, with deeper themes buried below the surface, his striving for Big Statements is awkward—much in the same way that Deneuve’s cool sophistication fails to gel with Reynolds’ hot emotionalism, the high and low aspects of this movie’s storytelling collide to produce a narrative muddle.

          The picture begins with cynical LA detectives Phil Gaines (Reynolds) and Louis Belgrave (Paul Winfield) commencing their investigation into the murder of a young hooker. The victim’s father, Korean War vet Marty Hollinger (Ben Johnson), is sniffing around the crime as well, because he wants revenge. When clues identify lawyer Leo Sellers (Eddie Albert) as a possible suspect, things get tricky not only because Sellers has political influence but because Sellers is a patron of another hooker, Nicole (Deneuve)—who happens to be Phil’s girlfriend.

          The idea of a cop living on both sides of the law is always provocative, but in this case, Phil’s relationship with Nicole makes him unsympathetic. Tolerating her demeaning career paints him as a user, while pushing her to abandon her work suggests he’s a chauvinist; there’s no way for Reynolds to win. Nonetheless, the actor gives a valiant effort, while Deneuve struggles to elevate her clichéd role despite obvious difficulty with English-language dialogue. Inhibited by iffy writing and overreaching direction, the stars end up letting their physicality do most of the acting—Deneuve looks ravishing and Reynolds looks tough. But that’s not enough. Excepting Johnson, whose obsessive bloodlust resonates, most of the skilled supporting cast gets lost in the cinematic muddiness, and Aldrich does no one any favors by shooting interiors with ugly, high-contrast lighting. Still, Hustle gets points for seediness and for the nihilism of its ending.

Hustle: FUNKY

Fun With Dick and Jane (1977)

Any film whose title describes the reaction the film hopes to elicit is asking for trouble—so the fact that Fun With Dick and Jake isn’t all that fun to watch makes its title seem like false advertising. Comedy of the lightest possible sort, the picture is coherent and smooth, so it’s not a complete misfire. However, it’s executed with such mindless superficiality that it’s more like Passing Time Painlessly With Dick and Jane. Ostensibly a satire of out-of-control materialism, the story revolves around aeronautics executive Dick Harper (George Segal) and his stay-at-home wife, Jane (Jane Fonda). When Dick gets fired as part of a company-wide downsizing, the Harpers realize how tenuous their financial life has become—for instance, during what should be one of the movie’s funniest bits (but isn’t), landscapers repossess the Harpers’ lawn for nonpayment of bills. Dick’s attempts to maintain his family’s lifestyle go badly, because he gets caught working while collecting unemployment, and he misrepresents himself to a potential new employer. Finally, after a supposedly farcical run-in with crooks, Dick gets the idea to become a hold-up man, and Jane insists on tagging along, so they become an upscale Bonnie and Clyde. Segal showcases his usual rascally charm, and Fonda tries (unsuccessfully) to infuse her underwritten role with empowered-woman sass, but the actors cannot surmount an uninspired script and fundamentally unsympathetic characters: The plot is lumpy and mechanical, and the Harpers are rotten people who feel entitled to a luxurious standard of living. Had a true satirist like, say, Larry Gelbart or Paul Mazursky tackled this storyline, the script would certainly have climaxed with some episode of edifying introspection; instead, this shallow romp asks viewers to perceive the Harpers as admirable strivers, thus short-circuiting any potential for social commentary. Oh, and the film’s largest supporting role is played by onetime Tonight Show sidekick Ed McMahon, which should give an idea of the level of artistic ambition on display here. FYI, the 2005 remake with Jim Carrey and Tea Leoni is just as middling as the original picture.

Fun With Dick and Jane: FUNKY

What’s the Matter with Helen? (1971)

          Following What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962) and Hush . . . Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1964), writer Henry Farrell generated yet another campy horror story about deranged women. Set in the ’30s, What’s the Matter with Helen? stars Debbie Reynolds and Shelley Winters as widows whose sons are convicted of committing murders. Ostracized as the mothers of monsters, Adelle (Reynolds) and Helen (Winters) flee the Midwest for Hollywood, intent on helping each other start new lives. Outgoing entrepreneur Adelle opens a dance academy for young girls, and Bible-thumping doormat Helen becomes her business partner, playing piano during lessons and sewing costumes for students. As a charming beauty who catches the eye of Linc (Dennis Weaver), the wealthy father of one of her students, Adelle reboots herself effortlessly. Helen has a tougher time. Wracked with guilt over her failure as a mother, Helen believes she’s being stalked, and she imagines that a radio preacher (Agnes Moorhead) is speaking directly to her with messages of repentance. So, as Adelle woos her beau, Helen spirals into derangement.

          As directed by horror stalwart Curtis Harrington, What’s the Matter with Helen? is simultaneously underdeveloped and overwrought. The story is too thin to sustain the movie’s running time, yet Harrington indulges in languid pacing, as well as lengthy production numbers featuring Reynolds and various child performers. Additionally, shooting the entire movie on soundstages precludes any attempt at realism, and the production design isn’t sufficiently opulent to justify the artifice. However, it’s the performances that really hold Helen back from realizing its potential. Reynolds, playing her only big-screen role of the ’70s, seems game for anything, so casting her in the “nice” role represents a missed opportunity. Conversely, Winters is absurd playing yet another in her gallery of grotesques, her dialogue shouted and her eyes bulging at regular intervals—it’s impossible to take a single frame of her performance seriously. As such, casting the actors against type (Reynolds as Helen, Winters as Adelle) would have been a lot more interesting. Nonetheless, for some snarky viewers, the combination of Reynolds’ sweetness and Winters’ flamboyance probably has a certain florid appeal.

What’s the Matter with Helen?: FUNKY

Life of Brian (1979)

          Members of the famed British comedy troupe Monty Python were already drifting apart by the late ’70s, following the end of their BBC sketch series Monty Python’s Flying Circus and the success of their hilarious medieval spoof Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975). Nonetheless, the public demand for new Python product proved irresistible. Coincidentally, troupe member Eric Idle used a running gag whenever anyone asked for the title of the collective’s next movie: He said it was Jesus Christ: Lust for Glory. Idle’s idea stuck, after a fashion, so when the six Pythons finally reunited, they made the Biblical satire Life of Brian, which was written by the entire group, designed by in-house animator Terry Gilliam, and directed by troupe member Terry Jones. Audiences expecting the sustained brilliance of Holy Grail were disappointed, although in some respects Life of Brian is a better movie than its predecessor—the picture has a harder satirical edge and a stronger storyline. Unfortunately, those aren’t the qualities people want from Python, and Life of Brian underwhelms as a comedy.

          Set in Judea during the era of the Roman Empire, the film begins with the Three Wise Men arriving to bestow gifts on the baby Jesus. However, they accidentally enter the stable next door to Jesus’ birthplace and fleetingly anoint one Brian Cohen as the messiah. That humiliating mix-up foreshadows  a series of unpleasant events that befall Brian (Graham Chapman) once he reaches adulthood. Repeatedly mistaken for a messiah, Brian gets drawn into the world of Jewish radicals fighting Roman oppression; subsequently, he’s captured by Romans and sentenced to crucifixion.

          While the Pythons present a handful of inspired gags in the course of telling this brazen story, Life of Brian has significant handicaps. The narrative is inherently depressing, and presenting a linear storyline mostly precludes the sort of irreverent nonsense that distinguishes the best Python work. (The brief appearance of space aliens halfway through the movie is a welcome reprieve.) Plus, for every clever line—“We enter the Caesar Augustus Memorial Sewer”—there’s a cheap bit like the scene in which a lisping Pontius Pilate (Michael Palin) scandalizes his subjects by talking about his pal “Biggus Dickus.”

          As in Grail, the Pythons each play multiple characters, but Chapman dominates since the Brian character appears in nearly every scene. And while Chapman’s exasperation is droll (when forced to proclaim his Jewishness, Brian shouts, “I’m a Red Sea pedestrian, and I’m proud of it!”), it’s no fun to watch the downward spiral of a condemned coward. Placing such a character at the center of a Biblical epic is a clever joke, but the narrative contrivance makes Life of Brian feel more cerebral than comedic.

          Still, even though Life of Brian is the least consistently funny of Python’s features, mediocre Python is better than the best efforts from most comedy troupes. Who else could come up with genius vignettes like the scene in which Brian paints anti-Roman graffiti on the side of a palace, only to be interrupted by an uptight centurion (John Cleese), who points out the grammatical errors in Brian’s writing and makes Brian paint his slogan 100 times on the wall as a lesson? That’s Python satire at its most sublime, and exactly the sort of thing Life of Brian does not have in sufficient abundance—although it must be said that the movie concludes with the most fabulously inappropriate musical number in cinematic history, “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

Life of Brian: GROOVY

The Gravy Train (1974)

Though it possesses many of the qualities shared by the best oddball ’70s movies—brazen tonal shifts, eccentric flourishes, offbeat characterizations—The Gravy Train runs off the tracks very quickly. Among other problems, the film is primarily a comedy but it isn’t funny, and the picture’s main attraction is the buddy-movie dynamic of two characters who aren’t colorful enough to sustain interest, separately or together. So, while it’s very easy to parse the film’s underwhelming content and discern how the material could have been developed into something more worthwhile, the finished picture lacks emotional punch, narrative momentum, and wit; the only real virtues on display are competent technical execution and vigorous acting, but these aren’t enough to justify the chore of watching The Gravy Train. Alternatively titled The Dion Brothers, the movie is about—you guessed it—the Dion brothers, two schemers from West Virginia mining country. Calvin (Stacy Keach) is a flashy chatterbox who has gotten involved with big-city criminals, while Rut (Frederic Forrest) is a slow-witted bumpkin back in the old hometown. When Calvin joins a crew planning a big heist, he talks his employers into letting him bring Rut aboard—but after the heist goes south and the brothers realize they’ve been double-crossed, they seek out the gangster (Barry Primus) who betrayed them. Along the way, the brothers pick up a screechy floozy (Margot Kidder), who accompanies them through various adventures. Co-written by Terrence Malick (under a pseudonym), The Gravy Train is dull and plodding, from its underwhelming opening—Calvin stages one of the lamest take-this-job-and-shove-it tantrums in movie history—to its stupidly downbeat ending. Despite valiant efforts at creating enjoyable characterizations, Forrest, Keach, and Kidder are undercut at every turn by lackluster writing, and it says a lot that the most amusing moment in the picture involves Keach using a live lobster as a weapon.

The Gravy Train: LAME

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble (1976)

          A sentimental favorite of many ’70s kids, this made-for-TV bummer fictionalizes the real-life experiences of two young men who were born without functioning immune systems, and were thus forced to spend their lives inside containment chambers. (The storyline features a single composite character.) Much of the picture’s appeal can be attributed to the participation of leading man John Travlota, who was already a small-screen heartthrob thanks to Welcome Back, Kotter; in fact, just a year after this movie was broadcast, Travolta made the leap to big-screen stardom with Saturday Night Fever. Seeing the virile Travolta reduced to emasculating captivity amplifies the movie’s themes of frustration and isolation, and it’s a safe bet millions of young ’70s girls wept during scenes of Travolta’s character suffering anguish because of his unique condition.

          The movie begins with a middle-class couple, Johnny Lubitch (Robert Reed) and Mickey Lubitch (Diana Hyland), celebrating the birth of a son—only to be told by their kindhearted physician, Dr. Gunther (Ralph Bellamy), that young Tod can’t leave his “plastic bubble” until a cure for his ailment is found. After some maudlin scenes of the Lubitches learning to connect with their child, plus a choking incident in which the infant nearly dies, the film cuts to Tod’s adolescence, when Travolta takes over the role. Living in an elaborate enclosure that’s akin to a Habitrail, Tod longs to be with other kids, especially his pretty next-door neighbor, Gina (Glynis O’Connor). He gets his wish, sort of, when he’s supplied with an airtight spacesuit that allows Tod to attend high school. Alas, his desire to breathe free air remains unsatisfied, so the question of how long Tod can suppress life-threatening urges creates a blunt sort of dramatic tension.

          Produced by prolific hacks Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, and directed by crowd-pleaser Randal Kleiser, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble is absurdly manipulative, a low-budget weepie built around a character who demonstrates saintly personal character. Yes, Tod talks about masturbating and he’s a wiseass during homeroom, but he’s essentially a lonely soul desperate for human contact. As a result, only the anger in Travolta’s performance keeps the piece from being totally saccharine—yet once the movie reaches its fanciful ending, any pretense to dramatic credibility gives way to melodramatic excess. Beyond its iffy virtues as a narrative, however, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble is beloved for its ’70s kitsch factor, from Travolta’s meticulously blowdried hairstyle to the casting of Brady Bunch dad Reed as Tod’s papa. Trivia buffs also note the significance of this project in Travolta’s life—Bubble helmer Kleiser subsequently directed Travolta in Grease (1978), and Travolta embarked on a love affair with costar Hyland, several years his senior, until her death from cancer in 1977.

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble: FUNKY