The Winds of Autumn (1976)

          One of low-budget auteur Charles B. Pierce’s most frustrating movies, The Winds of Autumn demonstrates how Pierce was simultaneously his own secret weapon and his own worst enemy. A revenge-themed Western with an offbeat angle, inasmuch as the character seeking revenge is an 11-year-old boy from a Quaker community, the picture has Pierce’s usual slick widescreen look, and yet it also has Pierce’s usual enervated storyline. The movie begins when young Joel (played by the director’s son, Chuck Pierce Jr.) observes a band of thugs approaching his family’s homestead. Joel’s parents ignore the boy’s warnings, believing God will protect them. He doesn’t. After the inevitable massacre, Joel is offered refuge by neighbor Mr. Pepperdine (played by the film’s cowriter, Earl E. Smith). Hungry for vengeance, Joel steals guns from Mr. Pepperdine’s stash—turns out the fellow used to be a gunfighter—and starts tracking the thugs. Soon afterward, Mr. Pepperdine arms himself and pursues Joel, hoping to prevent further tragedy.

          Scenes of Joel trekking through the wilderness are picturesque but repetitive and sluggish, so the picture’s limited entertainment value stems from the presence of actors seasoned in playing rural varmints. Jack Elam plays the main heavy, and the always-colorful Dub Taylor plays a snake-oil salesman who is moderately important to the plot. Every scene follows predictable rhythms, from the friction between the villains to the incredible resolve of the virtuous characters. On the plus side, the movie has a couple of so-so shootouts, and there’s a whorehouse scene featuring several attractive starlets—however, because The Winds of Autumn is a family picture, neither of those scenes has much bite. Nor, in fact, does the movie overall. Getting back to the secret weapon/worst enemy notion, Pierce, a set dresser by trade, always makes his pictures look more expensive than they are, but he’s perpetually incapable of embellishing narrative concepts with similar flair.

The Winds of Autumn: LAME

A Place Called Today (1972)

The world was not waiting for a Big Statement from filmmaker Don Schain and his then-wife, clothing-averse starlet Cheri Caffaro, who earned notoriety with the sexed-up espionage flick Ginger (1971). Nonetheless, in between making sequels to Ginger, the couple tackled a slew of social issues in the ridiculous melodrama A Place Called Today, which inexplicably received an X-rating during its initial release. (The version I watched contains nothing more than some bloody violence, coarse language, and simulated sex.) Cynical, heavy-handed, and unbelievable, the movie depicts a young black politician who stokes civil unrest by secretly conspiring with criminals and then runs for mayor by promising to end the unrest. Since it was filmed at a time when plugged-in directors were engaging the Black Power movement head-on, the plot of A Place Called Today is weirdly old-fashioned, like a racially tinged riff on some old Edward G. Robinson potboiler. Furthermore, the filmmakers’ attempts to integrate elements of jet-set debauchery and youthful rebellion fall flat. Caffaro plays the horny daughter of a corrupt businessman, Lana Wood plays an earnest activist, and both of them sleep with a white reporter determined to uncover the black politician’s scheme. So what the hell is A Place Called Today trying to say? That everyone is misguided? That conscientious white people need to save African-Americans from themselves? That sex makes everyone insane? Compounding the muddiness of its rhetoric, A Place Called Today suffers from leaden pacing, wildly inconsistent acting, and a vile portrayal of women. After all, the picture concludes with a gruesome rape/murder scene. In sum, if you’re looking for an inept movie that contains both gratuitous nudie shots and lengthy debates about the pros and cons of capitalism, then A Place Called Today was made for you.

A Place Called Today: LAME

The Night Stalker (1972)

          Seeing as how this playful horror show is not only a modestly budgeted telefilm but also the first of two pilot movies that preceded a short-lived series, The Night Stalker has cast a long shadow. A cult favorite for its mixture of humor and shock value, The Night Stalker and the weekly show it spawned—Kolchak: The Night Stalker—have been repeatedly cited by producer Chris Carter as the principal inspiration for his enduring X-Files franchise. Indeed, prior to The Night Stalker, it was rare for episodic television to feature ghouls and and monsters, except in the safe zones of anthology shows (e.g., The Twilight Zone) and comedies (e.g., The Munsters). Tellingly, one of the key players behind The Night Stalker, producer Dan Curtis, tested the public’s tolerance for small-screen scares by creating the vampire-themed daytime soap Dark Shadows, which ran from 1966 to 1971.

          The Night Stalker teamed Curtis with gifted fantasist Richard Matheson, who adapted the script from a book by Jeffrey Grant Rice. Like Curtis, Matheson was highly skilled at making spooky stuff palatable to TV viewers—witness his success with episodes of The Twilight Zone and the Steven Spielberg-directed telefilm Duel (1971). But enough about pedigree. While The Night Stalker is particularly interesting for its place in TV history, the movie is fun on its own merits, although its power to thrill has dulled with the passage of time and the accompanying coarsening of filmed entertainment.

          Darren McGavin, perfectly cast, plays Carl Kolchak, a low-rent reporter with a vivid imagination. Exploring the circumstances of bizarre murders in Las Vegas, Carl latches onto the wild idea that the killer is a real-life vampire—not a crazy person who acts like a mythical bloodsucker, but an actual supernatural creature. Naturally, this notion vexes Carl’s long-suffering editor, Tony Vincenzo (Simon Oakland), as well as local authorities including the hot-tempered Sheriff Warren A. Butcher (Claude Akins). Undaunted, Kolchak gathers enough evidence to persuade everyone that the preternaturally resilient murderer Janos Skorzeny (Barry Atwater) must be staked in the heart. Easier said than done.

          Unfolding with the familiar rhythms of a police procedural—clues, setbacks, witnesses, etc.—The Night Stalker builds a decent head of steam, with reliable TV director John Llewellyn Moxey delivering a lively version of the Dan Curtis house style. Think dramatic lighting, slow-burn suspense sequences, and zesty fight scenes. McGavin’s performance, as well as the motor-mouthed dialogue that Matheson provides for the actor, elevates the material considerably. Kolchak’s exasperation at the reluctance of authorities to believe the obvious is palpable, and his tap-dancing way of trying to play events for his advantage is consistently amusing. If there’s a weak link in the formula behind this piece, it’s Curtis’ usual predilection toward showing things full-frame instead of opting for mystery—the producer subscribes to the blunt-force-trauma school of storytelling.

          Nonetheless, the combination of the offbeat material and McGavin’s winning performance was worth sustaining, hence a second telefilm, The Night Strangler (1973), which Curtis directed from a Matheson script, and the 20 weekly episodes of Kolchak, airing between September 1974 and March 1975. A poorly received revival series, titled The Night Stalker and featuring Stuart Townsend in the lead, flamed out over the course of 10 episodes in the 2005–2006 TV season.

The Night Stalker: GROOVY

The Alpha Incident (1978)

Low-budget sci-fi schlock, The Alpha Incident contains a storyline that might have passed muster as, say, an episode of The Six Million Dollar Man. Stretched to feature length, bereft of a colorful hero, and inexplicably burdened with a bummer ending, The Alpha Incident galumphs from start to finish, so the most memorable thing about the picture is the laughable special-effects sequence depicting a man’s head exploding. If only the movie could provoke that dynamic a response from viewers. The movie proper begins on a train, where federal agent Dr. Sorensen (Stafford Morgan) is tasked with protecting mysterious cargo. After pestering Dr. Sorensen with questions, nosy train worker Hank (George “Buck” Flower), tampers with the cargo, which just happens to be dangerous material from outer space. Dr. Sorensen subsequently halts the train at a small station, ordering the station quarantined until authorities decide how to resolve the incident. Cue close-quarters melodrama involving Dr. Sorensen and the workers at the train station. That’s pretty much all that happens until the very end of the film, when folks start dying in horrific ways. (Despite his star billing, screen veteran Ralph Meeker delivers a lifeless performance in an inconsequential role yet another station worker.) Throughout most of The Alpha Incident, folks simply hang out, explaining how nervous they are without showing their feelings in dramatically interesting ways. Even the head-exploding bit is anticlimactic, and when you can’t make a combustible cranium exciting, you know you’re doing something wrong.

The Alpha Incident: LAME

Something Big (1971)

          Jammed with entertaining actors and powered by plot elements that worked better in other movies, the comedic Western Something Big is a slog to watch because it’s episodic, phony, and unimaginative. It says a lot about the picture that the protagonist repeatedly proclaims that he wants to achieve “something big” during his lifetime, but the exact nature of that something is withheld from the audience until the final act. Turns out it’s merely an armed heist. Myriad other films have been predicated on the very same threadbare premise, so why all the obfuscation? The solution to this mystery is as elusive as answers to other questions, like why this would-be comedy contains so few actual jokes. If nothing else, Something Big explains why director Andrew V. McLaglan spent most of his career making manly-man action flicks, because a comic genius he is not.

          Dean Martin, looking quite bored, stars as Joe Baker, an Easterner who fled to the West in search of adventure. After years pursuing an outlaw lifestyle, he’s fallen far short of achieving legendary status, so when he learns that his long-estranged fiancée is on her way to collect him, he decides it’s time for a grand scheme. Baker learns that a local thug named Cobb (Albert Salmi) can get his hands on a Gatling gun, so Baker makes a deal. In exchange for the gun, Baker will furnish Cobb with a woman. Baker then attacks passenger wagons until he finds a suitable candidate, Mary Anna Morgan (Honor Blackman). He kidnaps Mary Anna but doesn’t believe her when she says she has powerful allies. She ain’t lyin’. Her husband, Colonel Morgan (Brian Keith), is the commandant of the local U.S. Army fort. And so the contrived plot goes—Baker contemplates trading Mary Anna for the gun even as he falls for her, and Mary Anna grows to respect Baker even though she knows Baker’s fiancée is en route. Lost amid this romantic silliness is Baker’s grand scheme, which should have been the focus of the movie. Worse, Something Big wastes time servicing goofy subplots, notably the one about two horny frontier dames.

          Set to obnoxiously bouncy music by Marvin Hamlisch, Something Big lurches from one disconnected vignette to the next, the appeal of each scene dependent upon the actors present in the scene. By far, the bits featuring Keith as a blustery military officer and Ben Johnson as a gruff scout are the most rewarding. Conversely, the movie squanders the presence of Robert Donner and David Huddleston, who have tiny roles, and the filmmakers give too much screen time to Blackman, Martin, and Joyce Van Patten, all of whom give pedestrian performances. Despite its title, Something Big offers only small pleasures, at best.

Something Big: FUNKY

What Became of Jack and Jill? (1972)

          Whereas most of the horror films that Great Britain’s Amicus Productions made in the ’60s and ’70s were anthologies featuring gruesome supernatural elements, What Became of Jack and Jill? is more along the lines of a Hitchockian thriller. Based on a novel by Laurence Moody, the film takes an arch look at the Generation Gap, portraying with-it kids as amoral and lazy while portraying seniors as clueless and judgmental. These characterizations are dubious at best, but they serve narrative well by defining battle lines. Like some of Hitchcock’s darkest films, What Became of Jack and Jill? focuses on villains, so the wicked fun of the picture involves watching craven people execute an outlandish scheme, then waiting for their inevitable comeuppance. To be clear, What Became of Jack and Jill? is microscopic in scale and threadbare in terms of social commentary, roughly the equivalent of a Night Gallery episode. That said, the characters are entertainingly self-serving, the situations are somewhat imaginative, and the overall shape of the narrative is satisfying.

          Paul Nicholas plays Johnnie Tallent, a surly longhair who lives with his aging grandmother, Alice (Mona Washbourne), whom he calls “Gran.” Gran owns a house and draws a solid pension, so she supports Johnnie even though he doesn’t work. Yet Gran has little use for Johnnie’s flashy girlfriend, Jill Standish (Vanessa Howard), a bitchy blonde who dreams of becoming a jet-setter once Gran dies and leaves her wealth to Johnnie. Growing impatient with Gran’s longevity, Jill and Johnnie conspire to kill Gran, devising the outlandish scheme of convincing Gran that a violent youth revolution is underway. Will these horrible kids achieve their goal of driving poor Gran to a heart attack?

          Little of what happens in What Became of Jack and Jill? will surprise savvy moviegoers, so the picture will strike some folks as unbearably predictable. Viewed more charitably, the movie tracks a steady slide into amorality, with Johnnie succumbing to Jill’s toxic influence until his own vile nature surfaces. So even though What Became of Jack and Jill? is a simple story about greed, the themes it explores are timeless, and the specifics of the film capture a colorful moment in British history—surely the generation that endured World War II was mystified by the arrogance and entitlement of Love Generation brats who used the language of rebellion to justify their sloth. Don’t underestimate Gran, though. She’s craftier than she seems.

What Became of Jack and Jill?: GROOVY

The Bus Is Coming (1971)

If good intentions were reason enough to praise a film, The Bus Is Coming would be considered a noteworthy artifact of the blaxploitation era. A feel-good riff on the Black Panther Party, this picture envisions an alternate reality in which a violent uprising by oppressed African-Americans leads to positive social change once the white power structure learns the error of its ways. As if. Clumsily written, weakly acted, and laden with a silly central metaphor, The Bus Is Coming simply doesn’t work as a film experience, which is a shame. While similar films from the same era tended toward apocalyptic vibes, notably Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971) and The Spook Who Sat by the Door (1973), there was room in the conversation for a Black Power film blending optimism with radicalism. Anyway, the story begins with soldier Billy Mitchell (Mike Simms) returning from Vietnam to Los Angeles so he can attend the funeral of his brother, Joe, a community organizer who was killed during an altercation with police officers. Black Panther-type activists who worked with Joe believe he was deliberately murdered, so they begin arming themselves for a revolution. Hesitant to accept a conspiracy theory without corroboration, Mike investigates the situation and discovers that the racist cops who killed Joe are outliers within an otherwise socially responsible law-enforcement organization. In a weak attempt at irony, the filmmakers also demonstrate that one of the racist cops has a black female lover—because, see, he’s fucking the African-American community in more ways than one. Set to an oppressive, horn-driven jazz score, The Bus Is Coming lumbers from one terribly acted scene to the next, never building a head of narrative steam. As for the aforementioned central metaphor, two characters literally wait for a bus, which represents social change. Heavy, man. All in all, The Bus Is Coming is the most frustrating sort of bad movie, a well-meaning effort hobbled by wall-to-wall amateurism.

The Bus Is Coming: LAME

Heavy Traffic (1973)

          Inspired by the street life and the African-American culture to which animator Ralph Bakshi was exposed during his childhood and adolescence, the X-rated cartoon Heavy Traffic offers a statement of sorts. It’s personal and unique, but it’s also disjointed, excessive, loud, and vulgar, a phantasmagoria set in the gutter. Bakshi threads a semiautobiographical narrative through the picture, tracking the adventures of a 22-year-old cartoonist encountering the world of sex for the first time, while subplots touch on miscegenation, racism, and violence. Yet for much of its running time, Heavy Traffic is as freeform as a jazz solo, jumping and diving and grooving through a bizarre amalgam of brash sounds and provocative imagery. One gets the sense of Bakshi sawing open his head and pouring the contents onto the screen.

          There’s something unquestionably thrilling about watching a gifted artist speak this directly and openly to his audience. Alas, there’s also something to be said for restraint and structure, two things this film almost completely lacks. Because it’s such an individualistic statement, Heavy Traffic can’t rightly be described as a mess; better to say that Bakshi felt compelled to make certain things accessible to viewers and did not feel so compelled to translate other things out of his own private language. In sum, make of Heavy Traffic what you will.

          The core storyline follows Michael Corleone—yes, the same name as the protagonist of The Godfather (1971)—as he trudges through the brutality and grime of a New York City that seems to exist out of time. Some signifiers suggest the ’50s of Bakshi’s youth, while others seem pulled from the ’70s. Michael lives with his oppressive Jewish mother and his philandering Italian father, who constantly fight with weapons as well as words. (In one scene, Mom throws a cleaver at Dad’s crotch.) Through circumstance, Michael becomes involved with Carole, an African-American bartender in a dive bar, so Michael’s father goes mad over the thought of his son bedding a black woman. The father even tries to order a Mob hit on his own son. Meanwhile, Carole and Michael hatch a scheme to leave New York for California so he can pursue his dream of becoming an animator.

          Dancing around this linear narrative are myriad running gags and visual tropes, including live-action shots of an actor playing Michael while he operates a pinball machine. (Close-ups of balls bouncing around inside the machines serve as a recurring metaphor representing, one assumes, the vagaries of fate.) If the preceding description makes Heavy Traffic sound straightforward, rest assured it is not. Bakshi takes most scenes into risqué territory by explicitly animating sex and violence. Heavy Traffic may well contain more cartoon penises than any other film, and other startling images include slow-motion gore (e.g., a bullet exploding a character’s skull), as well as various excretory functions. One scene features a drunken stud making out with a dancing girl until exclaiming, “This broad’s got a hard-on!” The stud reacts to his discovery by pummeling his transvestite playmate nearly to death. Other noteworthy moments include the requisite offensive religious scene, with a bloody Christ stepping off the cross, and a black-and-white cartoon-within-a-cartoon depicting a character beating people with his phallus, which is as large as his entire torso.

          Clearly, Bakshi worked through some stuff while making Heavy Traffic, which he began developing well before his breakout hit, Fritz the Cat (1972), and then returned to after the success of Fritz the Cat gave him cachet.

Heavy Traffic: FREAKY

Mary White (1977)

          A father’s eulogy for a woman who died too young might not seem like ideal source material for a screen drama, but William Allen White’s celebration of his daughter, Mary, was unusual in many regards. Written in the White family’s hometown of Emporia, Kansas, in 1921, the eulogy was less a lament about the brutality of fate and more a tribute to an inspirational spirit. Moreover, the piece gave Mary White a measure of immortality because the eulogy earned a Pulitzer Prize for William, a progressive newspaperman who was friendly with many of the great minds of his day.

          As written for the screen by Caryl Ledner and directed by Jud Taylor, Mary White boasts depth and resonance—in addition to conveying an impression of what made Mary special, thereby telling an eternal story about the promise of youth, the movie positions Mary as a proto-feminist who became acquainted with and modeled herself after suffragette Jane Addams. As such, Mary White isn’t just some sepia-toned example of sentimental Americana. It’s a lyrical and rigorous character study well suited to the Ms. Magazine era.

          The movie opens with a theatrical gesture, because William (Ed Flanders) speaks directly to camera while setting the scene. Next, the picture transitions to a series of illustrative vignettes. These culminate in Mary’s death during a horseback-riding accident—a sad irony, given her expertise in the saddle. Thereafter, Mary White weaves through flashbacks depicting Mary’s eventful adolescence. She debates with her parents about her plans for the future, challenging even their forward-thinking attitudes with her view that women should not have limits placed upon them by society. She agitates to end segregation at her school, learning hard lessons about how activism impacts people. She disrupts a KKK rally. She takes an illuminating trip to New York City with her father, forcing him to recognize that despite her youth, she aspires to being considered an equal.

          While Flanders’ effortless way of conveying charm, intelligence, and morality anchors Mary White, Kathleen Beller’s performance in the title role is crucial. This is arguably her best-ever work, especially since most of her other ’70s and ’80s roles played up her voluptuous figure instead of her dramatic abilities. Mary White also benefits from a fine supporting cast—including Diana Douglas, Fionnula Flanagan, Tim Matheson, and Donald Moffat—as well as rich cinematography by Bill Butler and a score by Leonard Rosenman that evokes Aaron Copland’s rousing melodies.

Mary White: GROOVY

Some Call It Loving (1973)

          Some Call It Loving: the movie that dares to show what happens when a beautiful young woman awakens from years of slumber to discover the crass realities of the early ’70s. Some Call It Loving: the movie that dares to explore the life of a fabulously rich (and fabulously narcissistic) jazz musician who uses his mansion as the stage for a life lived as a kind of avant-garde performance art with an erotic edge. Some Call It Loving: the movie that dares to ask the question, “Will I always be your jellybean?” If all of this sounds bewildering, there’s a good reason why—the deeply strange Some Call It Loving is best described as an arthouse treatment of a B-movie concept.

          Meticulously crafted and yet at the same time quite inept—much in the same way the film is both pretentious and sincere—this movie commits wholeheartedly to characters and events that exist far outside the spectrum of recognizable human behavior. However, it’s not as if Some Call It Loving provides an ingenious metaphor representing some foible of the species. Quite to the contrary, the picture unfolds like an anthropological study of people who are so odd that they might as well be aliens from outer space. Compounding the weirdness, Some Call It Loving is made with the leisurely pacing and pictorial beauty of a European auteur piece.

          Giving an alternately somnambulistic and whiny leading performance, Zalman King plays Robert, a gentleman of leisure who wanders through a carnival until he encounters an exhibit promising a real-life “Sleeping Beauty.” She's Jennifer (Tisa Farrow), a lovely young woman who, according to her keepers, has been unconscious for years. Bewitched, Robert pays the keepers $20,000 for Jennifer, bringing her to his mansion. Instructed that she will wake if not consistently sedated with drugs, Robert cuts off her supply. Upon regaining consciousness, Jennifer accepts her new surroundings as if they’re normal, whereas the reaction one might expect is utter horror at being turned into chattel. Robert woos Jennifer with weird rituals, often involving his live-in companion Scarlett (Carol White), hence myriad scenes of role-playing and theatricality. (In one bit, Robert actually controls a curtain behind which two women perform a sapphic dance.)

          The film’s dialogue is as absurd as the accompanying dramatic events. Consider this riff from Scarlett: “Yes, I can understand. I’ve always understood. I’ve always understood because I love you. And when a woman loves a man, there’s no limit to her understanding.” The punch line? Two minutes later, Scarlett concludes the scene by saying, “Then maybe I don’t understand.” (That’s okay, honey—viewers are just as confused.) Woven into this bizarre narrative, which one fears was conceived as an offbeat romance, are pointless scenes featuring Richard Pryor as Robert’s drug-addicted best friend. Although Pryor’s appearances are high points because his acting is full of believable pathos, his scenes feel like they belong in a different movie.

          Directed by James B. Harris, whose sporadic output includes a number of gritty genre pictures, Some Call It Loving benefits from gorgeous cinematography. Italian DP Mario Tosi shoots the whole movie with gauzy frames, languid camera movies, and vividly colorful lighting patterns. Accordingly, it's tempting to peer deep into the movie’s mysteries and search for something resonant. Good luck with that.

Some Call It Loving: FREAKY

Bad Georgia Road (1977)

While some viewers might enjoy huffing Bad Georgia Road as a straight shot of clichéd moonshine-cinema stupidity, the picture is unimpressive even by the low standards of its drive-in-friendly genre. Yes, Bad Georgia Road has betrayal, brawls, chases, drunkenness, sex, shotguns, skinny-dipping, and nearly every other signifier associated with ’70s redneck flicks. What it lacks, however, is spunk. Whereas the best moonshine flicks roar through the backwoods on overdrive, Bad Georgia Road ambles through the same territory in a frustratingly low gear. Carol Lynley plays bitchy New Yorker Molly Golden, who inherits an estate in rural Georgia. Told she can cash out the estate for $100,000 if she shows up in person to sign papers, Molly quits her job and drives to Georgia. Upon arrival, Molly realizes she’s been duped—a lawyer persuades her to sign over the $100K to creditors, so her real inheritance comprises a decaying house, a few acres of land, and a ramshackle moonshine operation. Left with no options, Molly takes over the operation and clashes with her driver, Leroy Hastings (Gary Lockwood), an alcoholic womanizer. Predictably, other local moonshiners declare war on Molly’s operation. As B-movie setups go, this isn’t bad. Unfortunately, Lynley is shrill and uninteresting in the leading role, while Lockwood is questionable as her loutish compatriot. His accent is dodgy, his mannerisms are cartoonish, and he seems bored in most scenes. Everything in Bad Georgia Road feels trite, and the Taming of the Shrew dynamic between the leading characters is so retrograde as to seem grotesque. After all, Bad Georgia Road is one of those icky “lighthearted” movies in which the hero seduces the heroine by raping her. Thanks, but no thanks.

Bad Georgia Road: LAME

Charley One-Eye (1973)

          Presumably conceived as a provocative statement about race, this peculiar Western depicts the adventures of a black soldier who’s gone AWOL from the Union Army and the mysterious Indian whom the soldier encounters in the desert. Initially, the soldier makes a hostage of the Indian by threatening him at knifepoint, forcing the Indian into servitude and mercilessly taunting the man. After bonding over their mutual hatred of white people, the soldier and the Indian decide to commit robberies together. All the while, a bounty hunter chases the soldier, so the specter of death is omnipresent. In its broad strokes, this storyline should be serviceable despite its contrived nature. But Charley One-Eye is riddled with peculiarities, like the fact that none of the characters has a name. (The soldier is billed as “The Black Man,” the Indian is billed as “The Indian,” etc.)
          Actually, a slight correction to the preceding remark is necessary, because the film does indeed feature a character named Charley One-Eye. He’s a chicken. And, quite frankly, he’s the most sympathetic character in the whole movie.

          The first hour of Charley One-Eye is a slog, because the soldier (Richard Roundtree) is a sadistic prick given to fits of idiotic laughter, and the Indian (Roy Thinnes) is part pathetic cripple and part wise mystic. Neither character is believable or fun to watch, so the myriad scenes of them shuffling through the desert while being cruel to each other are boring. Eventually, the bounty hunter (Nigel Davenport) arrives, leading to scenes of torture and other violence.

          None of this resonates much beyond visceral impact, though flash cuts to the past indicate that the soldier slept with a white officer’s wife and subsequently killed the officer. The picture fails to provide corresponding illumination for the Indian, except to illustrate that he’s kind to fowl, particularly the aforementioned Charley One-Eye. The story climaxes with a failed attempt at poetic irony, exemplifying that the divide between the content and intentions of Charley One-Eye is so wide as to render the film almost impenetrable. As a result, the film is little more than pretentious pulp, despite Roundtree’s spirited efforts to enliven a poorly conceived role. Chicago native Thinnes, absurdly miscast as a Native American, mostly stares out from beneath long hair and a wide-brimmed hat while hissing his curt lines in a raspy whisper.

Charley One-Eye: FUNKY

Hell’s Bloody Devils (1970)

Even by the bottom-feeding standards of director Al Adamson’s usual fare, Hell’s Bloody Devils is unwatchable garbage. Apparently a slapped-together compendium of footage from two (or more) incomplete features, the movie is part biker flick, part espionage caper, part romance, and part brain-melting sludge. Watching this picture is like staring at a TV that changes its own channels, because scenes stop abruptly, characters drift in and out the picture, and the vibe toggles between clean-cut ’60s (some of the footage was shelved for years) and sleazy ’70s. At its weirdest, the movie stops dead when two characters visit a Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise for lunch and Colonel Sanders himself enters frame to ask the characters how they’re enjoying their meal. Familiar actors John Carradine and Broderick Crawford make fleeting appearances in Hell’s Bloody Devils—or, to put a finer point on it, in The Fakers, the espionage picture that Adamson commenced in the ’60s and repurposed for about half the footage of Hell’s Bloody Devils. Whatever. Hell’s Bloody Devils cuts from pointless vignettes of bikers festooned with Nazi regalia to a truly bewildering storyline about an Israeli secret agent teamed with a U.S. operative to do—something. Eventually, the spy stuff leads to a chase scene through a theme park, which comprises drab shots of people running through crowds to the accompaniment of overbearing music. Presumably, diehard schlock archivists have catalogued the components of this disastrous film’s ironic appeal, but for mere mortals, this is about as wretched as grade-Z cinema gets.

Hell’s Bloody Devils: SQUARE

Les Miserables (1978)

          There are so many adaptation of Victor Hugo’s deathless 1862 novel that it’s impossible to call any one version definitive; from the celebrated stage musical to the various film adaptations to the novel itself, there’s a Les Miserables for any taste. In fact, there’s even a Les Miserables for those who prefer their cinema ’70s-style, thanks to this sturdy made-for-television production starring the underrated Richard Jordan as long-suffering hero Jean Valjean and veteran screen villain Anthony Perkins as dogged Inspector Javert. Efficiently directed by Glenn Jordon and intelligently scripted by John Gay, this version of Les Miserables delivers the familiar characters, moments, and situations with an acceptable replica of human emotion. Jordan achieves more than Perkins (who is mostly relegated to sneering), but the combination of a melancholy musical score, solid production values, and the vibrancy of Hugo’s incredible narrative makes this trek through familiar terrain worthwhile.

          Presenting a somewhat faithful adaptation while adding a few bits, deleting many more, and generally streamlining the storyline of the novel, the picture begins in France circa 1796. Poor Frenchman Jean steals a loaf of bread from a store window in order to feed his starving family, but he’s captured and sentenced to five years in prison. As more and more years are added to his sentence, Jean attempts to escape several times until finally breaking free once he’s reached middle age. Prison commandant Javert, well aware of Jean’s resilience, considers it a personal failure when Jean escapes. Upon gaining his freedom, Jean reverts to thievery for survival—until an encounter with a saintly clergyman gifts Jean with both wealth and the determination to live righteously. Jean becomes a successful businessman under an assumed name. Then, once fate brings him back into Javert’s orbit, Jean realizes that his liberty is tenuous. The situation is further complicated by the onset of the June Rebellion and by Jean’s selfless choice to become the guardian of an orphaned girl.

          Even though the filmmakers excised plenty of material, the telefilm of Les Miserables contains a lot of story, so the filmmakers wisely focus on the most dramatic scenes. Jean saving a fellow prisoner from certain death. Jean’s epiphany with the clergyman. Jean’s tense standoffs with Javert, during which they debate the value of the individual versus the need for social order. Jordan does some lovely work, showcasing his charismatic blend of masculinity and vulnerability, though he’s burdened with overly ornate dialogue and, in later scenes, questionable old-age makeup. Perkins, meanwhile, play-acts the role of Javert instead of inhabiting the character’s hatefulness; that said, Perkins is such a pro that his sour expressions add weight whether or not they’re backed by real intentionality.

          It’s easy to complain about episodes that get glossed over, and this probably shouldn’t be anyone’s first exposure to the story because certain things end up feeling too pat and predictable. However, there’s enough human feeling pumping through the piece—both from the DNA of Hugo’s novel and the earnestness of Jordan’s take on the leading role—that this Les Miserables comes across like meaningful entertainment instead of just another musty literary adaptation.

Les Miserables: GROOVY

Texas Detour (1978)

Texas Detour is not without its low pleasures. The contrived story of three Californians who become victims while trapped in a small town, the picture is predicated on stereotypes and stupidity, as per the norm for drive-in schlock. Yet the movie knows just which lizard-brain responses to provoke, so the evil guys do evil things, the heroic characters do heroic things, and the sexy starlet gets naked. There’s also an abundance of vehicular action, including a couple of dirt-bike scenes. Much of this is set to original songs by Flo & Eddie, formerly of the Turtles, whose tunes mimic popular Me Decade musical styles. (One number, “The Big Showdown,” is a fair simulacrum of Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run vibe.) Alas, the picture’s shortcomings greatly outnumber its trashy thrills. The story begins with the McCarthy siblings—twentysomething Clay (Patrick Wayne) and teenagers Dale (Mitch Vogel) and Sugar (Lindsay Bloom)—venturing from L.A. to Nashville, where Clay has a job doing stunt work on a movie shoot. The McCarthys are run off the road by crooks who steal their van, so the siblings hitch a ride with creepy redneck Beau Hunter (Anthony James). After even creepier Sheriff Burt (R.G. Armstrong) takes their crime report, the McCarthys accept an offer of hospitality from Beau, who lives on the ranch owned by his dad, John (Cameron Mitchell). While on the ranch, Clay falls for Beau’s sister, Claudia (Priscilla Barnes), even as circumstances wend inevitably toward Beau raping Sugar. Reprisals ensue. As in their other films of the same period, Barnes is ornamental and Wayne is wooden, so it falls to Armstrong and James to inject Texas Detour with individuality. There’s only so much they can do, seeing as how the movie’s dialogue was apparently composed for the benefit of viewers perplexed by language past the first-grade level.

Texas Detour: LAME

Brothers (1977)

          Edward Lewis, a prolific producer who worked alongside Kirk Douglas on films including Spartacus (1960), took an unlikely detour into screenwriting for this project, a fictionalized dramatization of the relationship between Black Power activist Angela Davis and a prison inmate whose extended incarceration had racial overtones. In the historical event, Davis was arrested but exonerated for helping the inmate secure firearms that were used in an escape attempt. In the script, which Lewis cowrote with his wife, Mildred (the duo also produced), the characters representing Davis and various convicts are portrayed as victims of an oppressive white culture, employing anarchy and violence as the only available means of self-preservation. The peculiar thing about Brothers, however, is that it lacks the incendiary quality of other films about the Black Power movement. The picture unfolds like a straightforward docudrama, and the tension between agitprop intentions and restrained execution leads to middling results.

          Charismatic as always, Bernie Casey stars as David Thomas, a young black man with the misfortune of occupying the passenger seat of a getaway car after his friend unexpectedly robs a gas station. Convicted as an accomplice, David is given a heavier jail term than expected. He becomes radicalized soon after his arrival in prison, because his cellmate, Walter (Ron O'Neal), preaches the Malcolm X gospel. This resonates with David, given his unfair treatment by the legal system. Later, when Walter receives horrible abuse from racist guards, David becomes an activist by printing an underground prison newsletter fomenting rebellion against white authority. David’s activities are brought to the attention of Paula Jones (Vonetta McGee), a college professor/activist who visits David in prison and eventually falls in love with him. The two perceive themselves as revolutionaries whose cause justifies any risk.

          Even with supercharged subject matter, Brothers fails to generate much heat. Casey is excellent, subtly conveying righteous anger, and McGee’s combination of beauty and intensity makes her performance highly watchable. Yet director Arthur Barron’s pacing is sluggish, and the soundtrack comprises lots of drab jazz noodling, exacerbating the picture’s overall sleepiness. By the time the movie resolves into a melodramatic finale, it has lost energy instead of gaining it, so the final scenes lack the emotional punch they should have. Nonetheless, Brothers represents a sincere attempt at exploring radical politics from a compassionate and thoughtful perspective. Moreover, Angela Davis’ life experience is so endlessly fascinating that even a clumsy rendering of her exploits has inherent interest.

Brothers: FUNKY

Supercock (1975)

No, you haven’t accidentally wandered into the porn section—Supercock is an action/comedy about cockfighting, hence the film’s video-release title, Fowl Play. Shot in the Philippines with American actor Ross Hagen in the leading role, Supercock aspires to be a feel-good saga about a scrappy athlete who proves his mettle. As for the plot, it’s simple: Down-on-his-luck cowboy Seth Calhoun (Hagen) takes his favorite rooster, “Friendly,” to the Philippines for the first International Cockfighting Competition. Little problem. Actually a few of them. First, Seth is merely the trainer of the athlete in question, so the whole underdog angle is a cheat. Second, it’s not as if a chicken cares about winning prize money. Third, cockfighting is a death sport, so not only must “Friendly” kill his competitors, but he’s in mortal danger every time he fights. Kinda difficult to root for Seth if he regularly imperils his pet. Some movies seal their fates at the conceptual stage, and Supercock is one of them. Whereas the offbeat Monte Hellman drama Cockfighter (1974) accentuated the horrific aspects of this particular sport, Supercock plays the pointless murder of animals for laughs. Similarly, the movie’s idea of a joke—as in, the one idea that gets recycled ad nauseam—involves jamming the word “cock” into dialogue. “He has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen!” “My dear Mr. Calhoun, I must take a look at your cock.” Despite its crudeness and stupidity, Supercock isn’t badly made, at least in terms of technical execution. Moreover, the action bits, which range from chases and fist fights to various cockfighting scenes, are passable. Nonetheless, Supercock is a superdud as a comedy, and it’s so fundamentally wrongheaded as to be distasteful.

Supercock: LAME

Two Million Page Views!

Thank you to this blog’s loyal subscribers and also to casual visitors, because readership for Every ’70s Movie has reached another milestone—over 2 million page views since the blog launched in late 2010. Wow! One of the great pleasures of this project is interacting with readers through the comments function and the blog’s Facebook page. It’s amazing to realize how many folks out there have extraordinarily deep knowledge and memories of this unique time in cinema. I value comments that help ensure the utility of this blog by pointing out errors, I enjoy remarks that add nuances and trivia to my understanding of films being reviewed, and, of course, I greatly appreciate notes from people who simply want to say they dig the blog. Every ’70s Movie falls squarely within the labor-of-love category, seeing as how it doesn’t generate income, and while I’m determined to see the project through its logical conclusion, support is helpful and welcome. Hence a quick mention of this blog’s donation function. (See the PayPal icon in the upper-right corner of the homepage, just below my profile.) Based on my master list of titles that meet the blog’s criteria, I’m near the three-quarters mark, which means that tracking down many of the remaining films will require resources. The more you help, the more completely this project can survey the ’70s. Thanks again, and keep on keepin’ on!

Shock Waves (1977)

          The lingering image from this low-budget shocker depicts a squad of expressionless zombies wearing goggles and World War II SS uniforms as they emerge from bodies of still water, intent on spreading bloody mayhem. As one of the film’s supporting characters notes, “The sea spits up what it can’t keep down.” Utterly loopy in conception, and yet compelling because of its no-nonsense execution and the unnerving synthesizer music on the soundtrack, Shock Waves is reminiscent of John Carpenter’s early work. What the film lacks in depth and logic, it makes up for with menace and mood. And while writer-director Ken Wiederhorn is no John Carpenter, as evidenced by the unimpressive nature of Wiederhorn’s subsequent career, Shock Waves works quite well as an offbeat horror show.

          The picture begins when the crew of a sea vessel discovers Rose (Brooke Adams) floating alone on the ocean in a battered dingy. In voiceover, Rose describes the ordeal she just experienced. Along with several other folks, she took a pleasure cruise on a low-rent boat skippered by Captain Ben Morris (John Carradine). One night, Morris’ boat encountered the wreck of a massive ship. Soon thereafter, strange things started happening, culminating with the death of Captain Morris under mysterious circumstances and the scuttling of Morris’ boat. The passengers found refuge on a remote island, the only resident of which was a mystery man (Peter Cushing) with a scar across his face. Revealed as a former SS commander, the man explained the nature of the ship the passengers encountered. During World War II, the commander oversaw the “Death Corps,” a squad of genetically engineered zombie soldiers capable of breathing air and water. Deemed too dangerous for deployment, the “Death Corps” were decommissioned, and the commander sunk the boat containing his inhuman soldiers. For some reason, the “Death Corps” resurfaced at the moment that Morris’ boat arrived, and carnage ensued.

          The plot is ridiculous, and Weiderhorn succumbs to a few lowbrow impulses (such as squeezing Adams into a bikini for most of the picture). Nonetheless, Weiderhorn delivers a fair measure of creepy weirdness. Zombies stalk people through swamps. Survivors struggle to find hiding places in an old mansion, adding claustrophobia to the mix. Cushing unfurls the requisite expositional monologue. And so on. Thanks to its eerie music, familiar actors, grainy photography, and gruesome premise, Shock Waves could either haunt you or strike you as silly, depending on your receptivity to this type of dark fantasy. Either way, it’s vivid stuff.

Shock Waves: GROOVY