They Might Be Giants (1971)

The whimsical romantic adventure movie They Might Be Giants, adapted by James Goldman from his play of the same name and directed by Anthony Harvey, has more heart and novelty than it has credibility and resolution. Nonetheless, the piece communicates such a lovely theme that it’s possible to overlook many shortcomings. Similar in many ways to a more satisfying movie that came along 20 years later—The Fisher King (1991), with Jeff Bridges and Robin Williams—They Might Be Giants asks whether society can tolerate harmless kooks, particularly if they envision themselves as heroes striving for the common good. However, Goldman doesn’t come close to answering the biggest questions his story raises, instead employing cutesy literary sidesteps to avoid thorny issues. Still, the journey of the movie is unique, and the picture is energized by lively performances. Furthermore, while Goldman and Harvey never approach the heights of their previous screen collaboration—the acclaimed historical drama The Lion in Winter (1968)—their approach is consistently literate and sophisticated. Set in contemporary New York, the picture revolves around Justin Playfair (George C. Scott), a wealthy retired judge who slipped into fantasy after the death of his wife. Imagining himself to be Sherlock Holmes and even going to the extreme of strutting around in 19th-century dress, Justin is admitted to a mental hospital by scheming relatives and placed under the care of psychiatrist Dr. Mildred Watson (Joanne Woodward). And, yes, the gimmick of this movie’s “Holmes” finding his own personal Dr. Watson is just as extravagant a narrative indulgence as it sounds. Against a backdrop of Justin’s relatives angling to get him permanently committed so they can seize control of his money, Justin escapes the hospital and embarks on a quest to find the nefarious Dr. Moriarity—who, in the world of this story, doesn’t exist. Justin’s grand quest inspires acquaintances including Wilbur Peabody (Jack Gilford), a milquetoast senior who harbors heroic fantasies of his own, and Justin’s offbeat brilliance eventually sparks romance with Mildred. The movie vamps on its premise quite a bit, since the story can’t really go anywhere, but Scott is so commanding and Woodward is so stalwart that it’s a pleasure to watch them share the screen as their respective characters. After all, what’s not to like about the spectacle of two insightful people pooling their resources to right the wrongs of the world? (Gilford lends tenderness to the mix with his unassuming likeability.) One wishes there was as much substance in They Might Be Giants as there is style, since the specifics of the story disappear from memory rather quickly after watching the movie. But for viewers seeking a flamboyant lark, They Might Be Giants fits the bill.

They Might Be Giants: FUNKY

Drive-In (1976)

          Given the mixture of silly and sublime pleasures one could enjoy at the neighborhood drive-in theater in the heyday of that particular exhibition format, there was probably a great—or at least highly entertaining—movie to be made about the misadventures of teenagers during one eventful night at a Texas drive-in. Sadly, Drive-In is not that movie, although the picture’s quite harmless as a nostalgia piece. The reason the flick disappoints is that it tries to be a sex comedy but lacks any scandalous content, and that it tries to present an interwoven ensemble story but fails to present sufficiently dynamic characters to sustain interest. As portrayed by a group of no-name actors whose skill levels range from competent to nonexistent, the characters in Drive-In are mostly just clichéd rednecks, with such familiar types as the virginal good guy, the town slut (with a heart of gold), the smartass fat kid, and the mouth-breathing troublemaker on display. Nearly every beat of the movie is predictable, and the comic highlights—the waterbed in a swinger’s van gets knifed by an angry woman, would-be robbers get recognized by a neighbor while committing a crime—are tepid at best.

          The principal storyline involves gangly high-school redhead Orville (Glenn Morshower, who later became a fine character actor) inadvertently wooing raven-haired sexpot Glowie (Lisa Lemole) away from her violent boyfriend, Enoch (Billy Miliken). This romantic triangle culminates in a fistfight at the drive-in. Meanwhile, two local yokels attempt to rob the theater’s box office, but their would-be crime is married by bad lack and incompetence. Sprinkled between these storylines are goofy subplots such as the running gag of a drunken cowboy suffering through a night on the town with his overbearing mother. The only clever element of Drive-In is the movie within the movie, which is displayed onscreen at the main location. Disaster ’76 is an amusing spoof of the disaster genre, so every time a new scene is shown, Disaster ’76 incorporates another epic hardship—plane malfunctions, shark-infested waters, towering infernos, etc. Getting back to the overall movie, Drive-In features such fondly remembered tropes as people sneaking into the theater by hiding in car trunks, and the temporary suspension of the feature attraction during a brief rainstorm. As such, Drive-In does an okay job of capturing a social ritual that’s largely disappeared from the American experience.

Drive-In: FUNKY

Tess (1979)

          Given director Roman Polanski’s tumultuous rise and fall during the late ’60s and early ’70s—securing an enviable reputation as a master of suspense films, reaching the A-list with Chinatown (1974), becoming an international pariah following a sex scandal—it was reasonable to expect that he would close out the decade with the kind of perverse cinematic statement for which he was known. Instead, Polanski made Tess, an old-fashioned romantic drama culled from classic literature. Whether inadvertently or strategically, Polanski (somewhat) neutralized his critics by delivering a movie almost completely devoid of any allusions to his lurid life. This maneuver also set the stage for the second act of the Polish-born filmmaker’s career: Exit the enfant terrible, enter the sophisticated classicist. Tess is filmed with the same clinical detachment as his previous pictures, but the movie represents a significant maturation since it is not predicated on shock value.

          Adapted from Thomas Hardy’s 1891 novel Tess of the d’Urbervilles, which is about a principled young woman who falls victim to callous men and unforgiving social structures, the movie is set in Victorian England. Tess Durbeyfield (Nastassja Kinski) is the daughter of a drunkard laborer, and she seems doomed to a life of back-breaking servitude. When Tess’ father discovers that his family is related to the noble d’Urberville line, Tess is sent to find a position in the household of a local branch of the D’Urberville clan. Thus she meets Alec Stokes-d’Urberville (Leigh Lawson), a cad who seduces and abandons her, unaware that she’s become pregnant. The unbowed Tess delivers the child, who dies soon after, and then Tess tries to restart her life as a fallen woman. Love comes when she meets wealthy Angel Clare (Peter Firth), who has not yet chosen his path in life, but Tess’ past returns to haunt her in unexpected ways.

          The narrative underlying Tess is sturdy, of course, though it’s curious that Polanski stretches the film over nearly three hours when the story could easily have been told in much less time. Tess is a film of painful pauses and saturated silences, as the texture of the movie stems as much from what is unsaid as from what is said. Paradoxically, the film is also rather blunt, featuring dialogue that explains the emotional states of characters more explicitly than is necessary. (“You’re so good and gentle,” Angel says to Tess at one point, “I was mad to fear your resentment.”) The nature of the dialogue is, of course, defensible because Polanski and co-screenwriters Gerard Brach and John Brownjohn were writing about a more formal time, but the wordiness can make for some slow going.

          Similarly, Polanski’s tendency to linger on moments rides a fine line between creating nuance and practicing directorial self-indulgence; although most of the film’s shots are indeed quite beautiful, it’s as if Polanski couldn’t bear to cut a frame. In the end, this more-is-more aesthetic works in the movie’s favor, because Tess casts a spell. Tess is such a showpiece for Polanski’s wizardry, in fact, that the film’s performances seem incidental.

          Firth and Lawson deliver their lines professionally, and both incarnate snobbish entitlement, but neither does work that merits any great excitement. As for leading lady Kinski, her beguiling looks are unquestionably the focus. Simultaneously delicate and feral, she’s a walking personification of innocence blended with sexuality. Her accent wobbles, however, so in some moments she sounds French and in others she sounds German. Furthermore, it seems Polanski guided her to present blank expressions so the context of his storytelling could impart meaning on the canvas of her face. Like the movie’s excessive length, this approach ultimately delivers effective results. Still, a more emotional performance would have generated real dramatic heat.

Tess: GROOVY

Cry Blood, Apache (1970)

  

Low-budget crap riddled with amateurish editing, godawful dubbing, and vapid performances, this violent Western was presumably made to kick-start the moribund acting career of Jody McCrea, a second-generation performer who spent the ’50s and ’60s playing supporting roles in forgettable movies (including various Frankie-and-Annette Beach Party flicks). The son of famed cowboy actor Joel McCrea, Jody McCrea stars in and co-produced Cry Blood, Apache. The picture begins when a group of outlaws massacre the residents of an Indian village while searching for the location of hidden gold. The criminals abduct a survivor, pretty squaw Jemme (Marie Gahva), but one of the hoodlums, Pitcalin (Jody McCrea), tries to protect her from abuse. Meanwhile, an unnamed Indian brave (Marcus Rudnick) returns to the village and discovers the carnage, so he sets out to find the killers and exact vengeance. (The scene of Rudnick screaming in pain after finding his family dead is so overwrought that it’s unintentionally funny.) Right from the start, the picture makes zero sense. If Pitcalin’s such a nice guy, why is he hanging around with killers? And since Indians of the Old West era didn’t value gold, why not simply cooperate with the heavily armed whites and avoid the slaughter? Anyway, such logical considerations are immaterial, because nothing about Cry Blood, Apache merits close inspection. Most of the movie comprises tedious scenes of the criminals trekking across the prairie, with one member of the group, Deacon (Jack Starrett), giving long-winded religious speeches. (Starrett, who also directed the picture, was a prolific helmer of offbeat exploitation films throughout the ’70s, with subsequent credits including 1973's Cleopatra Jones and 1975's Race With the Devil.) Aside from the drab story and the lifeless acting (Jody McCrea being the worst offender), the most pathetic aspect of Cry Blood, Apache is the soundtrack, because nearly every line of dialogue sounds like it was looped in a wind tunnel. FYI, Joel McCrea turns up at the beginning of the picture to play his son’s character as an older man, then exits the movie as quickly as possible. Smart move.

Cry Blood, Apache: SQUARE

Serpico (1973)

          Serpico occupies such a significant place in film history that it’s difficult to discuss the film without reaching for superlatives so grandiose they lack real meaning. Among other things, Serpico is one of the greatest police movies ever made, Al Pacino’s leading performance stands among the finest accomplishments in ’70s screen acting, and Sidney Lumet’s meticulous direction demonstrates why every other subsequent filmmaker telling a New York-based crime story owes him a huge stylistic debt. Furthermore, the story—which was drawn from a famous real-life saga—perfectly encapsulates the ambivalent attitude Americans had toward cops and criminals in the ’70s. The fact that Serpico is essential cinema on myriad levels creates a challenge when trying to articulate its strengths and weaknesses—the strengths are familiar to most movie fans because the picture has been seen so widely, and the weaknesses don’t matter all that much. Nonetheless, any survey of ’70s cinema is absurdly incomplete without Serpico, so here goes.

          Pacino, in the full bloom of his early-’70s breakout period, brings all of his intellectualized Method intensity to the role of Frank Serpico, a real-life NYPD detective who became a controversial figure by testifying publicly about widespread police corruption; this adaptation of Peter Maas’ best-selling book portrays the hero as an everyman with high principles who finds it harder and harder to survive in an environment rife with officially sanctioned illegality. The picture begins with Serpico’s early days as a uniformed beat cop, when he alienates coworkers by refusing to accept protection money and by refusing to pinch cash that’s taken from crooks. As Serpico’s career continues, he evolves into a longhaired detective adept at undercover work, earning a steady stream of commendations and promotions for his bravery and investigative skill. Alas, Serpico’s rise coincides with a cancerous spread of police corruption, so his unwillingness to play dirty provokes widespread enmity. This culminates with a showdown that the real Serpico claims was an assassination attempt engineered by bad cops who were afraid that Serpico was going to blow the lid on corruption. And, indeed, the finale of the story, as in real life, is Serpico’s public testimony.

          The narrative is fantastically interesting from start to finish, and Pacino’s investment in his work is unquestionable—he’s a live wire in every scene. By the time the actor fidgets and struts through undercover scenes while he’s hidden behind long hair, a shaggy beard, and a floppy hat, his performance has reached the level of incarnation, because the emotional and physical reality Pacino creates by occupying space in a naturalistic way is utterly persuasive. Furthermore, Lumet captures the gritty rhythms of New York life so perfectly that much of Serpico feels like a documentary. If there’s a noteworthy flaw to Serpico, it’s that Lumet and Pacino focus too closely on the details of the main character’s journey through the shadowy world of the NYPD. With the movie covering such a large stretch of time and including so many incidents, supporting characters inevitably seem incidental and interchangeable. As noted earlier, however, criticizing Serpico is a fool’s game, because one could easily counter-argue that the personal nature of Serpico is exactly what makes the film uniquely powerful. (After all, the story’s about one man against the world.) FYI, the movie’s success inspired a short-lived 1976-1977 TV series starring David Birney, though the deeper influence of Serpico can be seen in countless subsequent movies that attempted, with varying degrees of success, to imitate the film’s hyper-realistic texture.

Serpico: RIGHT ON

The Nightcomers (1971)

          The last movie Marlon Brando made before his twin 1972 triumphs of The Godfather and Last Tango in Paris, which briefly returned him to prominence as one of the world’s most revered actors, The Nightcomers is a strange film on many levels. Not only is The Nightcomers a prequel—which in 1971 was still a rarity in cinema—but it’s a prequel to a book, rather than a previous movie. Written by Michael Hastings and produced and directed by Michael Winner, the film imagines what events might have preceded the narrative of Henry James’ 1898 novella The Turn of the Screw. Additionally, while Brando has top billing and a colorful role, the real leads of the picture are juvenile players Christopher Ellis and Verna Harvey, portraying children who fall under the spell of Brando’s character. (After all, these children will eventually become the protagonists of The Turn of the Screw.) The final major aspect of The Nightcomers’ strangeness is its brazen juxtaposition of eroticism and youth—The Nightcomers features bondage, nudity, and psychosexual abuse in the context of a story about children navigating adolescence.

          Set in late 19th century England, the picture begins when a wealthy aristocrat (Harry Andrews) leaves two orphaned children—of whom he is the nominal guardian—in the care of a housekeeper, Mrs. Grose (Thora Bird), and a nanny/teacher, Miss Jessel (Stephanie Beacham). The master of the house wants nothing to do with the raising of Flora (Harvey) and Miles (Ellis). Thus, the children have the run of a country estate with only the two women and a handyman, Peter Quint (Brando), for company. Peter is a crass Irishman more interested in play than work, so he fascinates the kids with his imaginative games, tall tales, and wild lectures about the nature of life and death. (“If you really love someone,” he says, “sometimes you really want to kill them.”) Much to the chagrin of the stern Mrs. Grose, the children spend most of their time with Quint, often engaging in dangerous shenanigans at his urging.

          The estate takes on a darker color when night falls, because Peter regularly visits Miss Jessel’s bedroom for rough sexual encounters—and since the children are so enthralled by Peter, Miles watches one such encounter through a peephole and attempts to re-create the bondage-filled tryst with Flora. Eventually, the children’s obsession with Peter has tragic consequences

          The Nightcomers has many peculiarities that could be described as flaws, such as the absence of a clearly defined leading character and the lack of satisfying psychological explanations for the extreme behavior of Peter, Miss Jessel, and the children. Yet as a hypothesis for what led to events in The Turn of the Screw, the film is highly imaginative. It is also effective as thriller. The sex scenes between Beacham and Brando are bracing, and the climax is horrific. As for Brando, while his lilting brogue may strike some viewers as overdone, the actor smoothly incarnates a multidimensional character. Ellis and Harvey blend innocence and wickedness effectively, while Bird strikes the correct uptight posture. Beacham, alas, is the picture’s weak link thanks to her superficial performance. That said, her eye-popping curves make the lust that drives the story highly believable.

The Nightcomers: GROOVY

The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie (1979)

          Despite including only about 10 minutes of original content, this cartoon anthology movie is worth a casual viewing simply because the old material it presents is so enjoyable. Just as That’s Entertainment! (1974) did with snippets of MGM movies, The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie celebrates the legacy of a particular studio by offering a fast-paced highlight reel. However, in this case the “studio” is actually a brand associated with one particular Warner Bros. Pictures animation unit—the legendary Looney Tunes moniker that adorned hundreds of ’toons starring Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, and other beloved characters. Overseen by Chuck Jones, the classic Looney Tunes director who made many of Bugs’ best films, The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie features Bugs (voiced, as always, by Mel Blanc) hosting a retrospective of his career.

          In the opening bits, Bugs hangs around his estate and explains the history of screen comedy—cave paintings beget movies, which beget slapstick, which beget action-packed Looney Tunes. (This brief but amusing bit comprises most of the new material.) Thereafter, Bugs either appears on camera or narrates while the film presents clips from classic Looney Tunes and/or entire shorts. Most of the material features Bugs, of course, and there’s a lot of Daffy and Porky, along with some Pepe Le Peu, too. As the title suggests, the Road Runner makes an appearance, though all of the Road Runner stuff is presented in a 15-minute montage of sight gags at the end of the picture. Like most anthology films, The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie runs out of gas—the Road Runner sequence is inherently repetitive, and it’s also far too long—but the best material is fantastic.

          Featured shorts include “Duck Amuck,” ‘Duck Dodgers in the 24½th Century,” “For Scent-inmental Reasons,” and so on. Since these shorts are all rightfully regarded as classics of the form, the bulk of the picture comprises a nonstop barrage of imaginative animation, masterfully timed comedy, and peerless vocal performances by the astounding Mr. Blanc. Purists can argue (with good reason) that these classic ’toons should only be consumed in their original form, but The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie is hard to beat as a sampler platter. Additionally, there’s one notable behind-the-scenes aspect to the project. Earlier in the ’70s, Looney Tunes animator Bob Clampett hosted a quasi-documentary called Bugs Bunny Superstar (1974), which reportedly annoyed Jones by implying that Clampett was Bugs’ principal creator. Jones returned the insult by excluding Clampett from a sequence in The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie during which Bugs names his various “fathers.” Ouch.

The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie: GROOVY

Kotch (1971)

          Walter Matthau delivered a series of wonderfully entertaining performances in the ’70s, his rapscallion charm stemming from the ability to hide characters’ warmhearted souls behind a disagreeable persona. For much of the decade, watching Matthau play men who bitch and whine their way toward doing the right thing was a source of endless pleasure. To his credit, however, Matthau wasn’t averse to deviating from his signature style. For instance, Matthau took something of a leap with Kotch by playing not only an overtly nice character but also by playing a senior; after all, the actor was merely middle-aged at the time of filming. And while Matthau scored an Academy Award nomination for his trouble (eventually losing Best Actor to Gene Hackman’s star-making turn in The French Connection), one would be hard-pressed to describe Kotch as a seminal Matthau project. Kotch is forgettable and sentimental, so the picture’s only real claim to fame is that it was the only feature directed by actor Jack Lemmon, Matthau’s frequent onscreen sparring partner. Lemmon’s filmmaking seems competent, though it’s hard to tell how much of the picture’s craftsmanship sprang from Lemmon’s imagination and how much was the result of solid work by Lemmon’s experienced crew. The shortcomings of Kotch are not related to execution. Rather, they stems from the underlying material, because the story—which screenwriter John Paxton adapted from a novel by Katharine Topkins—simply isn’t very interesting.

          The movie’s narrative concerns Joseph Kotcher, a likeable old man living with his son’s family. “Kotch” is enamored of his very young grandson, Duncan, but Kotch’s daughter-in-law wants the old man relocated to a retirement home. In the film’s most poignant sequence, Kotch realizes he’s not wanted, so he hits the road in order to find a new living arrangement. Not long afterward, the film settles into a sitcom-style dynamic: Kotch befriends Erica (Deborah Winters), a young pregnant woman. Although the film avoids any suggestion of May-December romance, the relationship is predictable—Kotch needs someone to nurture, Erica needs a guardian, blah-blah-blah. (It’s also distracting that the still-vital Matthau spends the whole movie hidden behind glasses, old-age makeup, and a white wig.) Filmed with a lush glow and served on a bed of gooey music by Marvin Hamlisch, Kotch is pleasant enough to watch. Furthermore, it’s hard to criticize a story that celebrates compassion, tenderness, and the value of senior citizens. Alas, good intentions only go so far. Especially seeing as how bolder filmmakers working in the same era were able to generate such surprising senior-themed stories as Harry and Tonto (1974) and Going in Style (1979), the unthreatening narrative of Kotch seems bland beyond belief when compared those films. As a result, only Matthau’s innate charisma and the film’s upscale production values give Kotch any real distinction.

Kotch: FUNKY

The Turning Point (1977)

          Making fun of The Turning Point requires little effort, since it’s such a consummate “chick flick” that it almost seems like it was designed to repel heterosexual males—the picture is a tearjerker about friendship in the ballet world starring two middle-aged women. And, indeed, the movie’s narrative is exactly as soapy as the premise might suggest. That said, The Turning Point is worthwhile in every important way. The acting is great, the cinematography is beautiful, the dancing is terrific, the direction is fluid, and the writing is intelligent. In short, The Turning Point is highbrow schmaltz—very much like The Way We Were (1973), another project that sprang from the pen of writer Arthur Laurents.

          The Turning Point tells the story of two lifelong friends who reconnect after a long period of estrangement. As young women, DeeDee (Shirley MacLaine) and Emma (Anne Bancroft) were both promising ballerinas in New York City. DeeDee chose family, hooking up with fellow dancer Wayne (Tom Skerritt) to set up housekeeping in Oklahoma, while Emma became a star. The picture begins with Emma arriving in Oklahoma for a performance, which occasions a reunion with her old friend after the show. As the women subsequently bond and clash, old differences manifest in harsh judgments about each other’s lives. The picture also tracks the ascendance of DeeDee’s daughter, Emilia (Leslie Browne), a promising young ballerina onto whom both older women project their dreams. The biggest subplot involves Emilia’s hot romance with Yuri, a ballet star played by (and modeled after) Mikhail Baryshnikov.

           The movie’s torrid narrative tackles such themes as age, ambition, betrayal, jealousy, regret, and, eventually, the gaining of wisdom through experience. Much of the film, of course, is devoted to dance, with long sequences of Bancroft faking her way through routines and of real-life dancers Baryshnikov and Browne strutting their stuff. Director Herbert Ross, himself a former dancer, clearly approached this film with great love—in fact, Browne was his godchild—and he generated both impassioned acting and lyrical imagery. Nobody phones in a performance for The Turning Point, and all four principal players—Bancroft, Baryshinkov, Browne, and MacLaine—received Oscar nominations. (The picture scored 11 nods in all, though it lost in every category.)

          Yet even with such exemplary work, The Turning Point is not one of those niche-interest movies that surpasses its inherent limitations by speaking to universal themes. Viewers who don’t dig ballet or scenes of women talking about their feelings will find little to love here. Even the picture’s breakout star, Baryshnikov, is a treat for the ladies, because he’s charismatic, muscular, and sensitive—an exotic hunk in tights. So perhaps it’s best to regard The Turning Point as a beautifully made throwback to the studio era, when such powerful actresses as Joan Crawford and Bette Davis regularly starred in what are now pejoratively referred to as “women’s pictures.”

The Turning Point: GROOVY

Concorde Affaire ’79 (1979)

This Italian-made, low-budget adventure film is such a shameless ripoff of the Airport series that the plot combines the premise of one Airport picture (a plane crashes underwater, as in Airport ’77) with that of another (a scheme to sabotage the Concorde, as in The Concorde: Airport ’79). The producers even stole the Airport series trope of ending a title with an abbreviated reference to a year. Yet any similarities to the lavishly produced escapism of the Airport flicks end there: The execution of Concorde Affaire ’79 is inept on every level. The villain of the piece is an evil businessman named Milland (played by the impossibly bored Joseph Cotten), whose company has interests in the air-travel industry. He orders that several Concorde jets be sabotaged in order to throw the whole Concorde line out of operation, thus (in theory) eliminating his main competition. Never mind two big logic problems: 1) Every clue would point to Milland as a suspect, and 2) Wouldn’t all Concordes get grounded after the first couple of suspicious accidents? Anyway, smartass journalist Moses Brody (played by the impossibly tanned James Franciscus) gets assigned to look for a missing Concorde that went down in the Atlantic near Caracas. Yes, the story asks viewers to assume that no one else is looking for the missing airplane. What ensues is an absurd potboiler, with Milland’s agents trying to kill Brody before he learns too much. There’s also some tiresome crap involving a flight attendant (Fiamma Maglione) who survived the Atlantic crash, and a stalwart pilot (Van Johnson) who must land a Concorde that’s been rigged to explode. Suffice to say, the choppy editing ensures that none of this coheres, and the bizarre musical score—electronic disco at one moment, tense classical during the next—adds to the bewildering effect. About the only sequence that works is a very long underwater bit with scuba divers chasing after each other through coral-reef formations. However, those few almost-exciting moments are not nearly reason enough to slog through the mess of confusing storytelling (and terrible dubbing) that comprises Concorde Affaire ’79.

Concorde Affaire ’79: LAME

The Little Prince (1974)

          Although I managed to pass through childhood without any exposure to the story, I’ve learned that French author/aviator Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s fantastical novella The Little Prince is one of the most successful and widely read children’s stories of the 20th century. I mention this by way of stating that I approached this film adaptation without any feelings toward the source material, so others can hold forth on whether the picture does justice to de Saint-Exupéry’s writing. Watching the film of The Little Prince as its own entity, I found little to like despite the imaginative narrative and worthwhile themes. Director Stanley Donen, a giant of studio-era musical films whose career was winding down when he made The Little Prince, brings a fair amount of style in the form of clever fisheye-lens photography and general exuberance, but the combination of coldly professional acting by the leading players and distractingly artificial settings for many scenes makes the piece feel perfunctory rather than passionate.

          It’s also not a good sign that when famed choreographer-director Bob Fosse shows up in a rare acting role, he completely takes over the film for several minutes with his signature brand of cinematic and physical movement; although merely credited as choreographer for his own sequence, Fosse likely had a hand in the design of camera shots and editing, as well, and his bit is the liveliest stretch of the movie.

          Anyway, the story of The Little Prince must lose something in translation, because as presented onscreen, it’s insipid. When a character known only as the Pilot (Richard Kiley) lands his plane in the Sahara after experiencing engine trouble, he meets a strange young boy, the Little Prince (Steven Warner), who claims to have come from an asteroid in outer space. The Little Prince regales the Pilot with tales of his encounters with strange characters, including a friendly Fox (Gene Wilder), a demanding Rose (Donna McKechnie), and a pernicious Snake (Fosse). Each encounter taught the Little Prince a lesson, and so does his friendship with the Pilot.

          As communicated through twee songs by the famed duo of Alan Jay Lerner (who also wrote the screenplay) and Frederick Loewe (who also composed the score), the Little Prince’s adventure says something about the importance of retaining a child’s innocence even in adult life. Yet while the content is admirable, the execution is blah. Exterior daytime scenes in the desert are visually dull, nighttime exterior scenes shot on a soundstage are phony-looking, and the tricks Donen uses to simulate outer-space environments are gimmicky. Yet it’s ultimately the performances that keep The Little Prince from achieving liftoff. Kiley, a lovely actor with a resonant voice, is too theatrical, and young Steven Warner comes across as an automaton doing what he’s told. So, even with Fosse’s dynamic dance sequence and Wilder’s touchy-feely extended cameo, there’s little heart in what should be a deeply moving parable.

The Little Prince: FUNKY

Hearts and Minds (1974)

          Years before Michael Moore started using the documentary form to launch broadside attacks against the political right wing, lefty producer Bert Schneider backed the creation of Hearts and Minds, director Peter Davis’ scalding examination of the Vietnam War from a multiplicity of perspectives. The Academy Award-winning doc is unapologetically polemical, because even though supporters of America’s involvement in Vietnam are given room to speak in the movie, they damn themselves with the ignorance of their statements. For instance, the jaw-dropping climax of the picture features General William Westmoreland, supreme commander of U.S. forces in Vietnam, claiming that “life is cheap” to Asians—even as Davis cuts to heartbreaking footage of the funeral for a South Vietnamese soldier. In unforgettable images, the soldier’s young son wails in agony while the soldier’s wife tries to climb into her husband’s grave.

          Obviously, Davis moves far beyond journalism with these types of rhetorical choices, so it’s best to approach Hearts and Minds not as an objective overview of the war but rather as an essential record of why so many people were against the war. Davis makes his points by presenting several distinctive individuals and then juxtaposing their perspectives. The first major player is Lt. George Coker, a clean-cut Jersey boy shown receiving a hero’s welcome after his release from a long internment as a P.O.W. During this opening scene (and elsewhere throughout the movie), Coker echoes Westmoreland’s dehumanizing attitude, referring to enemy combatants as “gooks.” Meanwhile, ex-pilot Capt. Randy Floyd, a wheelchair-bound longhair, openly weeps when trying to imagine how Vietnamese parents must have felt when the napalm bombs he dropped from his plane killed their children.

          Employing montage with great dexterity, Davis forms a collage of archival footage and new material, essentially distilling the debate about the war into an intense 112-minute discourse. On one extreme are former government officials and soldiers who rehash the old “domino theory” justifications; on the other extreme are anguished vets trying to grasp the severity of their deeds and their injuries. In between these extremes are key figures such as Daniel Ellsberg. The famed whistleblower whose illegal release of “The Pentagon Papers” radically changed the American public’s attitude toward the war, Ellsberg methodically explains how his discoveries changed his attitudes. Like many others in the picture, he describes a gradual radicalization informed by mounting evidence that the war was not only unwinnable but fundamentally wrong—a political maneuver rather than a humanitarian intervention.
          One could argue that Davis overreaches during scenes in which he tries to identify the essential characteristics of the American soul that generate warmongering aggression; the merging of a rough high-school football game with a Lyndon Johnson speech about how Americans refuse to lose crosses the line into editorializing. But when Davis’ technique is true—which is the case throughout most of Hearts and Minds—he hits targets with incredible impact. The parade of interviews with physically and psychologically damaged veterans underscores how many young American lives were needlessly ruined by the war, and Davis’ footage of ordinary Vietnamese citizens describing how they ravaged by the war is enough to make any supporter of the conflict feel shameful. It’s probably impossible for contemporary viewers to imagine how powerful this material must have been during its original release, when all of these divisive issues were at the forefront of the national conversation, but Hearts and Minds has lost none of its ability to indict, inform, and infuriate.

Hearts and Minds: RIGHT ON

Jeremy (1973)

          It’s not hard to see why some folks hold a special place in their hearts for the sensitive teen romance Jeremy, because even though it’s not a noteworthy film in any other regard, the picture treats adolescent angst with an unusual degree of respect. Further, writer-director Arthur Barron captures how all-important first love feels to the involved parties. Therefore, it’s a bit unfair to complain that the narrative of Jeremy is slight, even though that’s certainly the case—for the leading characters, romantic turbulence might as well be the end of the world. Robby Benson, appearing in one of his first movies, cements his screen persona as a blue-eyed heartthrob by playing Jeremy Jones, a cello student at a New York City performing arts school. Painfully shy and upset by his teacher’s pronouncement that Jeremy will never be a world-class musician, the young cellist happens upon Susan Rollins (Glynis O’Connor), a ballet student whose family recently relocated from Detroit to New York. The two fall in love, but then Susan’s father announces he’s moving the family back to the Motor City.

          Jeremy is a small film about closely observed emotions, so there’s not much in the way of plot. Instead, Barron—who never made another feature—lets moments linger so that viewers can savor moods. His observational approach is delivered via humble production values. Since Jeremy was photographed with a rudimentary shot-design aesthetic on grainy 16-milimeter film, the movie has the texture of a documentary. Happily, the leading performers thrive in this milieu. Benson’s habits of casting his eyes downward and of speaking softly invite the viewer to peer through his outer shell to find the sweetness within. O’Connor, making her screen debut, plays only slightly brassier notes, and the pair has a warm chemistry. (They later reteamed for the 1976 release Ode to Billy Joe.)

          If any major criticism could be leveled at Jeremy, it’s that Barron treats his characters too gently—there’s very little real conflict in the story. For instance, after Jeremy’s teacher (Leonardo Cimino) tells Jeremy he’s not good enough for a music career, the teacher then spends the entire following scene apologizing for being too harsh. The pervasive niceness of the movie creates a lulling sort of monotony after a while, even though many scenes are quite lovely, such as Jeremy’s performance of a difficult cello piece during a school recital. Some elements of Jeremy have aged poorly, including the film’s theme song (“The Hourglass Song”), which Benson sings on the soundtrack three different times; lest anyone forget this is a tender drama, a reminder from Benson’s achingly wispy voice is never far behind. Still, none could fault Jeremy for lacking commitment, because every frame of the movie communicates Barron’s compassionate take on teen angst.

Jeremy: GROOVY

Soldier Blue (1970)

          Nineteen-seventy was a wild year for Hollywood movies about the Native American experience, even if most of the stories Hollywood generated were told through the prism of white people assimilating into Indian culture. The best of the 1970 batch is undoubtedly Little Big Man, with Dustin Hoffman, although A Man Called Horse, with Richard Harris, has noteworthy virtues, as well. And then there’s Soldier Blue, which is in odd hybrid of bleeding-heart liberalism, culture-clash comedy, gut-wrenching violence, and Vietnam allegory. The movie’s a mess, but it’s strangely compelling and undeniably memorable, if for no other reason than how well it captures the anguished spirit of the historical moment in which it was created. Based on a novel by Theodore V. Olsen (which was originally titled Arrow in the Sun), the movie is set in the American West during the Civil War and revolves around two white characters with opposing views on Indians. Thrown together by circumstance, they bicker until arriving at an understanding, only to stumble into a horrific slaughter by U.S. soldiers of an entire Cheyenne village.

          Although the film’s bloody climax is based on a real historical incident from the time of the Indian Wars—the infamous Sand Creek massacre—the filmmakers’ thematic and visual parallels to the 1968 My Lai atrocity in Vietnam are unmistakable. So, in a weird way, the Native Americans supposedly at the heart of Soldier Blue are doubly marginalized—not only are Caucasians the leading characters, Indians are used as an all-purpose metaphor representing oppressed indigenous people everywhere. Still, iffy politics are the least of Soldier Blue’s problems from a cinematic perspective, because the film wobbles between sitcom-style banter and ugly scenes of murder and rape. Nearly everything in the movie is highly watchable for some reason or another, but Soldier Blue feels like several films cobbled together into one sloppy whole.

          The picture begins when Cheyenne warriors attack a group of civilians and soldiers. Only Cresta (Candice Bergen) and Honus (Peter Strauss) survive. She’s a white woman who has been held captive by Indians for a long period of time and has unexpectedly developed sympathy for their plight, whereas he’s a straight-line military man with ignorantly racist attitudes. The duo travels through a remote wilderness, arguing their way to mutual attraction while surviving near-death experiences as well as encounters with weird frontier characters. (Reliably odd character actor Donald Pleasence plays one of these folks.) Eventually, Cresta and Honus reach a military fort, where Cresta becomes permanently disillusioned with white culture—the soldier to whom she’s engaged reveals his plans to annihilate the village where she was held.
          The heroes try to prevent mass bloodshed, to no avail, so director Ralph Nelson unleashes an incendiary barrage for the movie’s big finish—the raid on the Indian village is filled with graphic violence and intense rape scenes as nature-loving Indians fall victim to monstrous whites. All of this is exactly as heavy-handed as it sounds, even if the underlying message is historically valid. Viewed as a piece of dramatic art, Soldier Blue is a train wreck. But viewed as a window into the concerns of its time, Soldier Blue gains a measure of twisted relevance.

Solider Blue: FREAKY

Fighting Mad (1976)

          Filmmaker Jonathan Demme completed his productive tenure in Roger Corman’s B-movie operation with this uneven but watchable action picture about a principled redneck standing up to greedy developers. There’s nothing even slightly original about the plot, but as writer and director, Demme fills the picture with just enough idiosyncratic flourishes to keep things interesting during the beginning and middle of the story. Then, during the climax, Demme unleashes an exciting nighttime showdown replete with not only gunplay but also, for novelty’s sake, death by bow and arrow. Peter Fonda (of course) stars as Tom Hunter, a young man who returns to his family’s home in Arkansas only to discover that every private landowner in the immediate vicinity is under pressure from operatives of real-estate mogul Pierce Crabtree (Philip Carey). Crabtree wants to raze low-income homes to make way for a shopping mall, and he won’t take no for an answer, so his goons use lethal force to frighten citizens into selling. Among those who fall victim to Crabtree’s thugs are Tom’s brother, Charlie (Scott Glenn), and his wife. This pushes Tom into ass-kicking mode. Meanwhile, Tom manages his relationships with his young son, Dylan (Gina Franco); his on-again/off-again girlfriend, Lorene (Lynn Lowry); and his salt-of-the-earth father, Jeff (John Doucette), whose property is in Crabtree’s crosshairs.

          The best parts of Fighting Mad feature Tom sticking it to the man, because the tension between Fonda’s laconic persona and his character’s righteous passion is consistently interesting. The star is fun to watch whether he’s commandeering a tractor, planting explosives at a Crabtree work site, or shooting arrows into henchmen. Whenever the action hits a lull, however, so does the movie. Demme’s storytelling is choppy—every time it seems Fighting Mad has kicked into gear, Fonda’s character stops for a beer or a tumble with his girlfriend. Demme also lingers on pointless bits like musical performances, continuing his endearing/irritating career-long habit of losing the forest for the trees. Production values in Fighting Mad are fairly strong for a Corman production, since Demme focuses on real locations with loads of texture, and the performances get the job done; Doucette and Glenn in particular lend humanity to their small roles. However, the music score, by folk musician and frequent Fonda collaborator Bruce Langhorne, is all over the place—the old-timey bits with lots of banjo suit the milieu, while the electronic suspense stings hit their target but seem pulled from another movie.

Fighting Mad: FUNKY