1980 Week: Tom Horn & The Hunter

          Like so many movie stars who epitomize a particular romantic ideal, Steve McQueen’s reign as a box-office champ was surprisingly brief. He found success on television with the 1958-1961 Western series Wanted: Dead or Alive, then became a proper marquee name with his breakout role in the ensemble adventure The Great Escape (1963) before peaking with action/thriller pictures including Bullitt (1968). By the mid-’70s, however, McQueen was basically over. That is, until he mounted a two-film comeback attempt in 1980. Alas, McQueen’s return to glory was not meant to be. The actor died from a heart attack at age 50 while receiving treatment for the cancer that his doctors discovered after McQueen completed production on his last movie, The Hunter. While both of McQueen’s final films are palatable distractions, neither is remarkable, and, quite frankly, neither suggests McQueen had much gas left in the tank. Released in March 1980, Tom Horn is an elegiac Western about a cowboy forced to pay for his violent life. Released in August 1980, The Hunter is the lighthearted story of a modern-day bounty hunter. Both pictures are based upon real people, and both roles suit McQueen well.

          Tom Horn, the better of the two pictures, explores the unique quandary faced by gunslingers during the historical moment when the Wild West gave way to civilization, with all the petty corruptions that word entails. The real Tom Horn was a Rough Rider with Teddy Roosevelt, and he helped capture Geronimo. By 1901, he was a relic—a bit like McQueen circa 1979, when the picture was shot. While drifting through Wyoming, Tom (McQueen) meets gentleman rancher John Coble (Richard Farnsworth), who hires Tom to help roust a troublesome band of rustlers. Working on behalf of John and a consortium of fellow ranchers, Tom dispatches the varmints permanently, killing them one by one. Even though he’s following orders and operating within the law, Tom’s bloody campaign gains unwanted attention, because the ranchers want Wyoming to seem like a peaceful paradise. Therefore, when Tom is arrested for the murder of an innocent man, it sure seems as if some nefarious soul framed Tom in order to make him go away. (The film, with a script credited to Bud Shrake and Thomas McGuane, retains ambiguity about the critical shooting.)

          The second half of Tom Horn comprises a kangaroo-court trial, though the real thrust of the inquiry is exploring the necessity of free-roaming gunmen in the 20th century. Director William Wiard does an okay job of infusing Tom Horn with fatalism (at one point Horn muses, “Do you know how raggedy-ass and terrible the West really was?”), and he tries valiantly to emulate John Ford’s sweeping vistas. However, Wiard isn’t much for generating real dramatic energy, and the casting of vapid Linda Evans in the female lead dooms the film’s romantic subplot. McQueen seems tired throughout the movie, which fits the character, but a distracting sense of listlessness pervades Tom Horn’s 98 pokey minutes.

          Offering a different look at similar subject matter, The Hunter is a more accomplished piece of work, but not in a good way—the movie is so slick and tidy that it feels like the pilot for a TV series instead of a proper feature. McQueen plays Ralph “Papa” Thorson, a gruff but loveable hired gun who chases bail jumpers across the country. Packing a .45 and perpetually griping that he’s too old for this shit, Papa treats bad men without mercy but cuts all kinds of slack for misguided ne’er-do-wells, even providing employment to some of the people he captures. Director Buzz Kulik has fun staging action scenes, including a chase across a farm involving cars and a tractor, as well as the centerpiece sequence revolving around an elevated train in Chicago. Domestic scenes are less impressive, because McQueen and leading lady Kathryn Harrold—as Papa’s pregnant girlfriend—share anemic, sitcom-style banter about commitment and Lamaze classes. Worse, the film’s climax is so trite that it’s nearly comical, and the myriad scenes designed to inform viewers that “Papa” is brave, eccentric, noble, old-fashioned, or just plain wonderful get tiresome after a while.

          Nonetheless, Tom Horn and The Hunter capture something important about McQueen, even if both are disappointing in different ways. In the ’60s, McQueen was the quintessential man of his moment. Just as McQueen did, the moment passed quickly through this world, leaving an indelible impression.

Tom Horn: FUNKY

The Hunter: FUNKY

1980 Week: The Mountain Men

          A manly-man’s adventure flick filled with bloodshed, cartoonish characterizations, and playful vulgarity, The Mountain Men plays like a dumbed-down version of Jeremiah Johnson (1972), the soulful Robert Redford melodrama about an iconoclastic frontiersman. Whereas that picture tapped into mythic themes by depicting one individual’s desire to find meaning through connection with the wilderness, The Mountain Men is about crude rascals concerned only with profit and survival. This material doesn’t fit leading man Charlton Heston especially well, since the actor’s best roles positioned Heston as a voice of righteous indignation within society. Although he was always believable with heavily physical characterizations, his take on coarse manners and salty language feels artificial, giving the impression of a little boy playing dress-up. Conversely, costar Brian Keith seems totally comfortable in every scene, hitting a fine balance between generating larger-than-life entertainment and rendering a consistent portrayal.
          It’s not quite fair to say that this mediocre and unmemorable picture is worth watching solely because of Keith’s performance, but his work is certainly the film’s strongest element. Also praiseworthy are the film’s robust location photography and the general intensity of the action scenes, because what the film lacks in substance, it makes up for with pulpy excitement.

          The slender narrative has longtime friends Bill Tyler (Heston) and Henry Frapp (Keith) agreeing to guide inexperienced travelers through unsettled parts of Wyoming circa the 1830s. This contrivance is merely a weak engine for delivering the real focus of the story, Bill’s quest to find an elusive valley filled with beavers, the trapper’s equivalent of a gold mine. Unfortunately, neither of these elements gives the film much momentum, since the script by first-timer Fraser Clark Heston (the star’s son, later to become a middling director of theatrical features) is exceedingly episodic. That’s not to say, however, that all of the episodes are uninteresting. The film’s most exciting scene involves a run-in between the trappers and a band of Blackfoot Indians, culminating with the startling image of warriors scalping Henry. In a separate passage of the storyline, Bill ends up stuck in the wilderness, using his stamina and wits in order to survive without proper resources. Some of this stuff is fun to watch, and some of it isn’t. 

The Mountain Men: FUNKY

1980 Week: First Family

          Calling First Family a political satire is being too generous, but as one watches—more like endures—the unfunny sprawl of Buck Henry’s solo directorial debut, it’s possible to imagine how this might have worked on paper, specifically as a short story or a comic novella. The arch characterizations, the lewd running joke about a nymphomaniac, the ridiculous payoff involving gigantic fruits and vegetables grown with the aid of a sexually satisfied pagan god—given Henry’s dry wit, all of this stuff must have seemed quite droll at the conceptual stage. On film, none of it works. It’s not simply a matter of Henry lacking directorial experience, though the inert quality of First Family lends credence to the lore that Warren Beatty rightfully usurped Henry during the making of Heaven Can Wait (1978), hence their shared directing credit on that wonderful film.

          The problem stems from the nature of the jokes in First Family. To a one, each verbal and visual gag is an intellectual flight of fancy that’s amusing only in broad strokes. The African ambassador who learned random English phrases without understanding what the words mean. The high-level political meeting held in the Oval Office during a costume party, with the nincompoop VP wearing a pink bunny suit. The African leader who wishes to purchase several hundred white, middle-class American families so his country an experience the presence of a “repressed minority.” These are cocktail-party one-liners, not the foundations for screen comedy.

          Still, Henry’s track record (cocreating Get Smart, cowriting The Graduate, etc.) attracted a terrific cast to this doomed enterprise. Bob Newhart plays an unpopular president desperately looking for a big win. Madeline Kahn plays his boozy First Lady. Gilda Radner, in the picture’s most absurd role, plays the 28-year-old First Daughter, a virgin whose chastity is protected by the Secret Service. (Because most 28-year-old American women have neither had sex nor left their parents’ homes.) And so on. Richard Benjamin. Bob Dishy. John Hancock. Julius Harris. Harvey Korman. Rip Torn. Fred Willard. Even Buck Henry himself, in two roles. All wasted on material that never elicits so much as a chuckle. Unsurprisingly, First Family was also Henry’s last hurrah as a director, notwithstanding one episode of a PBS sitcom (!) in 1989.

First Family: LAME

1980 Week: Somewhere in Time

          Received indifferently during its original release, this time-travel romance subsequently gathered a cult of devoted fans who succumbed to the pleasures of the movie’s lush music and sentimental storyline. Despite being penned by one of the great sci-fi writers of the 20th century, Richard Matheson, the movie is outlandish, slow, and syrupy, with direction that’s serviceable at best, and the actors playing the leads render questionable work. What the movie has in its favor, however, is utter sincerity: The filmmakers strive valiantly to create an immersive illusion. Additionally, the aforementioned leading actors are both classically pretty, the Great Lakes locations are resplendent, and composer John Barry suffuses the movie with his signature strings. In short, Somewhere in Time is just the thing for imaginative viewers eager for a good cry. Think of it as a predecessor to Ghost (1990), only without the jokes.
          Matheson adapted the movie from his own 1975 novel, Bid Time Return, making significant adjustments along the way. The film begins in 1972, on the night that budding playwright Richard Collier (Christopher Reeve) celebrates the premiere of his new play during a student workshop at a Midwestern college. Amid the regular crush of cast, crew, and well-wishers, a mysterious elderly woman walks up to Richard, hands him an antique watch, and says, “Come back to me.” Years later, during a melancholy moment in his life, Richard returns to the college town and takes a room at a posh hotel. He discovers a photograph, dated 1912, of beautiful actress Elise McKenna (Jane Seymour), and he eventually determines that she was the woman who gave him the watch. Becoming obsessed with Elise, Richard contacts a time-travel theorist who suggests that it’s possible for people to transport themselves across decades using self-hypnosis. Richard succeeds in doing so. Upon arriving in 1912, he courts Elise and tries to persuade her they’re destined to be lovers.

          The premise is loopy, but it’s easy to understand why fans of Somewhere in Time consider the movie intoxicating. What’s more thrilling than the idea of a beautiful, sensitive individual sacrificing everything for a chance to find a soul mate? Matheson’s script has more than a few rickety elements, including the contrived presence of Elise’s manager, William Robinson (Christopher Plummer), who impedes Richard’s efforts. Similarly, Jeannot Szwarc’s direction is slick but unremarkable. Somewhere in Time represented a test of Reeve’s box-office appeal and range after his breakout performance in Superman (1978), and he faltered on both fronts. The connection between his stilted performance and the movie’s lackluster box-office performance seems plain. As for leading lady Seymour, a great beauty without much dramatic power, this picture represented the latest in a series of failed attempts at becoming a proper movie star. On the bright side, her looks are incandescent throughout Somewhere in Time, so it’s easy to accept her character’s ability to beguile admirers.

Somewhere in Time: FUNKY

1980 Week: The First Deadly Sin

          A grim policier noteworthy for containing Frank Sinatra’s final leading role—he relegated his acting appearances to cameos and guest roles for the remainder of his life—The First Deadly Sin is a peculiar piece of work, because even though the technical execution is first-rate, the story is hopelessly enervated. What’s more, Sinatra’s manner of depicting his character’s world-weariness comes across as disinterested acting, a problem exacerbated by his character’s murky motivations. The movie also suffers an imbalance because leading lady Faye Dunaway’s scenes are needlessly attenuated, given the underwritten nature of her role, and because most of the central investigation comprises a quest to identify a murder weapon, rather than a murderer. As such, the protagonist lacks emotion, the key secondary character lacks substance, and the main narrative thrust lacks a human element. It says much for the skills of everyone involved that The First Deadly Sin is relatively watchable despite all of these shortcomings.

          Sinatra plays Edward Delaney, an NYPD detective on the cusp of retirement. At the very moment a challenging murder case lands on his desk, Edward’s wife, Barbara (Dunaway), suffers a seizure while hospitalized and undergoes emergency surgery. Furthermore, Edward’s combative new supervisor, Captain Broughton (Anthony Zerbe), orders him not to investigate crimes with connections to other precincts. This set of circumstances creates an existential quandary for the diligent detective—even as his wife’s health becomes more and more precarious, he must defy his supervisor’s orders if he wishes to bring an elusive killer to justice. Eventually, this situation resolves into a scenario of Edward seeking to impose morality onto a capricious universe before impending tragedy strips life of its meaning.

          Director Brian G. Hutton’s pacing is very slow, resulting in myriad shots of Sinatra loitering onscreen with various gloomy facial expressions. The love story between the Delaneys never clicks, partially because the 26-year age gap between Dunaway and Sinatra is so glaring. Furthermore, the hero enlists nonprofessional helpers to aid his investigation, and these folks never face danger; come to think of it, we never really fear for Delaney’s welfare, either. So as a thriller, The First Deadly Sin fizzles. Every so often, however, the movie sparks thanks to a zesty addition from a character actor. George Coe is suitably loathsome as a doctor who lacks empathy, David Dukes contributes twitchy work as a deranged killer, James Whitmore lends amiability and crustiness to his role as a coroner, and Joe Spinell is wonderfully crass playing a doorman who can be bought cheaply.

The First Deadly Sin: FUNKY

1980 Week: Altered States

          Unquestionably one of the trippiest movies ever released by a Hollywood studio, the sci-fi/horror saga Altered States was an odd swan song for Paddy Chayefsky. Following a celebrated career during which his melodramas and social satires earned the writer three Oscars—for Marty (1955), The Hospital (1971), and Network (1976)—Chayefsky penned his first and only novel, Altered States (1978). Suggested by the experiments of “psychonaut” John C. Lilly, who used hallucinogens and sensory-deprivation tanks to explore the furthest recesses of the human mind, Altered States was a far cry from Chayefky’s usual fare.

          Nonetheless, Chayefsky wrote the screen adaptation of his own book and prepared to make the movie with director Arthur Penn. Disagreements pushed Penn off the project, and his replacement was Ken Russell, a British maverick known for boundary-pushing imagery and puerile fascinations. Chayefsky didn’t click with Russell, either, but this time it was the writer who left the project, replacing his name on the script with a pseudonym. Watching Altered States, it’s possible to see why Chayefsky distanced himself from the movie—which is forever on the verge of self-parody—and yet it’s also possible to see what made the underlying material so fascinating in the first place. The protagonist of Altered States tries to scientifically identify the fundamental nature of the human species.

          Psychology professor Edward Jessup (William Hurt) spends time in sensory-deprivation tanks, treating his visits like exploratory journeys into the outer realms of consciousness. Even as he clumsily attempts to build a “normal” life with a beautiful colleague named Emily (Blair Brown), Edward remains obsessed with his research. That’s why he follows a lead and visits South America, consuming a powerful drug that elicits mind-expanding hallucinations. Returning to the U.S., Edward combines the drug and the sensory-deprivation tank, with shocking results.

          By about halfway through its running time, Altered States becomes an out-and-out fantasy film, complete with elaborate special effects. Seeing as how the picture is loaded with hyper-articulate dialogue and persuasive scientific jargon, the introduction of paranormal phenomena makes for a heady shift. Accordingly, many critics and viewers have dismissed Altered States as a lark with a great pedigree, even though it arguably belongs on the same continuum of existential sci-fi as 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Solaris (1972). Chayefsky’s style is evident, pseudonym be damned, because no one else writes lines like this one: “She prefers the senseless pain we inflict on each other to the pain we would otherwise inflict on ourselves—but I’m not afraid of that solitary pain.”

           Similarly, only Russell could manufacture the out-there imagery of Edward’s hallucinations: bloody bibles, mutant animals, spewing volcanoes, naked bodies transforming into sand sculptures that blow away when attacked by vicious winds. Composer John Corigliano, contributing his first-ever music score, energizes Russell’s crazy images with an extraordinary score defined by avant-garde flourishes, insinuating rhythms, and an almost primal energy. Vivid performances elevate the film, as well. Making his movie debut, theater-trained William Hurt channels his über-WASP persona into the spectacularly alive portrayal of a seeker chasing the one thing he finds hardest to grasp—true human connection. Blair Brown matches him in terms of intelligence and passion, while also adding a layer of sensuality, and costars Bob Balaban and Charles Haid lend comic relief playing, respectively, the believer and the skeptic in Edward’s social circle.

          Yet perhaps the most interesting aspect of Altered States is that whenever he’s not overseeing whackadoodle hallucination scenes, Russell provides crackerjack storytelling clarity. He handles dramatic scenes with restraint and taste, manufacturing fast but disciplined pacing. One can only imagine what shape Altered States would have taken if Chayefsky and Russell had been simpatico.

Altered States: GROOVY

1980 Week: Ordinary People

          One of the most harrowing domestic dramas ever released by a major Hollywood studio, Ordinary People tells the story of a family poised to implode in the wake of a tragedy. Tracking the emotional recovery of a teenager following a suicide attempt—which, in turn, was the direct result of his older brother’s accidental death—the picture uses a scalpel to peel back the socially acceptable masks that hide hatred, pain, and shame. Even with glimmers of humor from supporting actor Judd Hirsch, who plays a psychiatrist with an earthy demeanor, Ordinary People is rough going. The movie is almost relentlessly sad. Yet the final act is quite moving, a reward for viewers who cross an emotional minefield with the film’s characters. Another incentive: Ordinary People is exquisitely made in terms of acting, storytelling, and technical execution. The movie is not perfect, partially because it takes so long for tonal variance to emerge and partially because the stately pacing results in a slightly bloated running time. In every important respect, however, Ordinary People is a model for how small-scale dramas can achieve their full potential. When the movie works, which is most of the time, it’s almost transcendent.

          At the center of the picture is the Jarrett family. The father, Calvin (Donald Sutherland), is an easygoing lawyer who can’t see how deeply his family was scarred by the death of elder son Jordan during a boating accident. The mother, Beth (Mary Tyler Moore), is a tightly wound avatar of suburban perfection who suppresses everything that’s challenging and imperfect and weak. That’s why she can’t even begin to connect with the family’s surviving son, anguished teenager Conrad (Timothy Hutton). Because he was present when his older brother died, Conrad blames himself for Jordan’s death. Unfortunately, so does Beth, for whom the sun rose and set with Jordan. The unique dramatic crux of Ordinary People is the notion that parents don’t always love their children equally—Beth resents Conrad as much as she worshipped Jordan.

          Despite its great sensitivity and meticulous craftsmanship, Ordinary People might have become the equivalent of a glorified TV movie if not for the involvement of one key player. Acting icon Robert Redford made his directorial debut with Ordinary People, and his work was so assured that he scored an Oscar for Best Director. Rather than showing off with visual trickery, Redford focused on molding performances and shaping scenes, with marvelous results. He led first-time movie actor Hutton to an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, and the way Redford exploded Moore’s girl-next-door image was masterful. Also netting an Oscar for the film was screenwriter Alvin Sargent, who beautifully adapted the story from a novel by Judith Guest by creating a tightly connected web of metaphors and signifiers. Collectively, the team behind the movie was rewarded for their efforts with the ultimate Hollywood prize: Ordinary People won the Oscar for Best Picture of 1980.

Ordinary People: RIGHT ON

The Amsterdam Kill (1977)

          A soulless thriller directed with palpable indifference by Robert Clouse, The Amsterdam Kill tells the uninteresting story of an ex-DEA agent who sorta-kinda teams up with a Chinese drug lord in order to dismantle a heroin cartel operating in Amsterdam and Hong Kong. Along the way, the duo’s exploits reveal corruption among law enforcement, so by the end of the whole mess, the antihero ex-DEA guy incarnates that hoariest of clichés, the Last Honorable Man in a Dishonorable World. The presence of venerable big-screen bruiser Robert Mitchum in the leading role would seem like reason enough to watch the picture, but the combination of Mitchum’s bored performance and a periodically incoherent storyline drains vitality from The Amsterdam Kill. Only the noisy intrusion of a violent action scene every few minutes keeps The Amsterdam Kill from seeming like an outright waste of film. Perhaps the best one could say is that the picture is agile and brisk but also hopelessly generic and pointless.

          Things get started when aging drug dealer Chung Wei (Keye Luke) decides to retire and sell information about his competitors to the DEA. His exact motivation for doing so is never satisfactorily explained. Rather than dealing directly with the agency, Wei contacts Larry Quinlan (Mitchum), a disgraced former agent. Quinlan selects Hong Kong-based DEA agent Howard Odums (Bradford Dillman) as his middleman. Also part of the mix is Amsterdam-based DEA agent Riley Knight (Leslie Nielsen). Each time Wei gives Quinlan a tip, Quinlan and his associates arrange a sting operation, but early maneuvers go badly, revealing a leak in the DEA’s operation. Eventually, circumstances throw Quinlan’s motivation into question, as well, particularly once he becomes obsessed with plugging the DEA leak. How is that his problem? Very little of what happens in The Amsterdam Kill makes sense, but a lot of it is colorful and manly. Hell, Mitchum even gets to use heavy construction equipment as a murder weapon during the finale.

The Amsterdam Kill: FUNKY

The Streets of San Francisco (1972)

          A solidly made cop show that ran for five seasons and is perhaps best remembered as the vehicle that delivered Michael Douglas to stardom, The Streets of San Francisco made the most of the locations referenced in its title. Rather than living entirely on backlots, familiar Los Angeles locations, and soundstages, as was true for many generic police programs of the ’70s, The Streets of San Francisco used the glorious views and loping hills of the Bay Area as supporting characters. Watching veteran Detective Lt. Mike Stone (Karl Malden) and passionate young Inspector Steve Keller (Michael Douglas) confront crises and probe mysteries every week, it was believable that San Francisco was the home to an endless array of interesting stories.

          That being said, the tale told in the pilot movie is weak. One problem, of course, is that the movie sprawls across an hour and 40 minutes, stretching the routine premise of the show well past the breaking point. Another problem is that producers put way too much focus on guest star Robert Wagner, who plays a lawyer with connections to a murdered woman. Whereas strong pilots situate viewers in the worlds of the leading characters who will drive the ensuing series, The Streets of San Francisco pilot shoves Stone and Keller to the background. (In subsequent episodes that boasted vivid central narratives, this trope worked more effectively than it does here.)

          The pilot begins with the death of a young woman named Holly Berry (Kim Darby). Stone and Keller find a peculiar clue on her body—a laminated business card bearing the name of lawyer David Farr (Wagner). The storyline then trudges along two parallel tracks. In present-day scenes, the cops try to piece together a picture of Holly’s life. In flashbacks, viewers learn about Holly’s affair with David, which is fraught with issues because she’s a hippie living on the fringe and he’s a member of high society with a reputation to protect. Based on a novel by Carolyn Weston, the pilot storyline is really more of a melodrama than a proper mystery. Uninspired work by the so-so supporting cast reflects the tepid nature of the material; beyond Darby and Wagner, the pilot features Tom Bosley, Mako, and John Rubenstein. Throwing the whole thing in a weird new direction is the climax, which switches the tone from police procedural to supernatural thriller.

          Happily, things got better on The Streets of San Francisco once it went to series. Motifs that seemed incidental in the pilot, like Malden’s way of imbuing his seen-it-all character with dogged optimism, grew as the series developed. Concurrently, Douglas found his footing by creating a persona befitting the spectacular head of hair that he sported throughout his run on the series; by the time Douglas left the show, just prior to its final year, he had become an Oscar-winning producer and he was well on his way to becoming a movie star. No surprise that his replacement, Richard Hatch, wasn’t able to keep the Streets of San Francisco going, though Hatch later found cult fame as the star of the original Battlestar Galactica series.

The Streets of San Francisco: FUNKY

Ebony, Ivory & Jade (1976)

Thanks to dynamic artwork and a kitschy title, the American release poster for this exploitation flick from Filipino-cinema hack Cirio H. Santiago promises a no-nonsense thriller about multiethnic hotties kicking ass. No such luck. Originally titled She Devils in Chains—and also known as American Beauty Hostages, Foxfire, and Foxforce—this clunker tells a turgid story about Hong Kong hoodlums kidnapping a group of female American athletes. Despite a few vignettes of high-kicking karate action, most of the scenes depict the athletes’ time in captivity, as well as the activities of friends and relatives determined to effect their release. At first, the movie seems purposeful because the villains claim they want money to finance a political agenda. Before long, however, the narrative degrades into the usual human-slavery muck that permeates so many ’70s women-in-prison pictures. Although the title Ebony, Ivory & Jade suggests a close-quarters drama about three women from different backgrounds bonding over the course of a shared ordeal, the actual movie concerns four athletes, none of whom emerges as a vivid character. The two black athletes are interchangeable, with each delivering impassioned dialogue about racial oppression, and the nominal leading character, Ginger Douglas (Colleen Camp), is a one-note spoiled rich girl. Set to punishingly repetitive music, the PG-rated Ebony, Ivory & Jade is a whole lot of nothing, because Santiago neither delivers the goods in terms of sexy exploitation elements nor provides the sort of compelling storyline that could have rendered such elements superfluous.

Ebony, Ivory & Jade: LAME

The Green Room (1978)

          A dark character study extrapolated from the writings of Henry James, François Truffaut’s The Green Room tells a twisted love story through the prism of grief so powerful it compels a man to all but withdraw from the human experience. Adding to the tragedy of the piece is the irony that loss brings the protagonist into intimate contact with a woman who is broken in the same way, but not to the same degree; therefore, the promise of renewal hovers over a story about a man resigned to oblivion. Tackling these grim themes in his characteristically literary style, Truffaut crafts an experience that is sometimes more intellectual than it is visceral, so some viewers will find the piece icy and perhaps even impenetrable. For those willing to accept Truffaut’s disinterest in striking crowd-pleasing chords while performing this particular sonata, The Green Room is intriguing.

          Set in the 1920s, the picture stars Truffaut as Julien Davenne, a World War I veteran haunted not only by the war but also by the death of his beloved wife. While working as an editor for a newspaper that has fallen from popularity—one of the film’s myriad metaphors representing decay—Julien pursues his real passion, which is building a shrine to his late spouse. The “green room” of the title includes photographs and souvenirs, so on a spiritual level, the room represents a space where Julian can imbibe his wife’s essence until he’s intoxicated. Wallowing inside the green room is the only pleasure that Julien allows himself, because the rest of his life is fraught. He shares lodgings with a housekeeper, whom he tasks with errands that Julien considers beyond his emotional capacity, and with a deaf-mute boy, whom Julien traumatizes by showing slides depicting war dead.

          The implication is that Julien has disappeared so deeply into an abyss of mourning that he’s like a black hole sucking other objects in with the force of his gravitational pull. Julien even extends animus beyond the grave, because when a luminary of his former acquaintance dies, Julien alienates his publisher by writing a eulogy that takes the form of a poison-pen letter. The only glimmer of brightness in Julien’s life is his relationship with Cécilia Mandel (Nathalie Baye), an assistant at an auction house. He meets her while reviewing estate-sale artifacts in order to find something that once belonged to his wife. Later, once Julien discovers that Cécilia is also paralyzed by loss, he draws her into a plan for building a grander shrine than the green room, a massive vault honoring all of Julien’s friends and loved ones who have died.

          The Green Room is simultaneously obvious and subtle. On a surface level, the film is a scientific study of the way grief can conquer life if given fertile ground in which to plant its bitter seeds. On a deeper level, however, the film is about human connection. One gets the sense, for instance, that Julien exhausted his full measure of love while building a world with his wife, so her death snuffed a flame inside of him. Seen from that perspective, the arc of Julien’s relationship with Cécilia has a cosmic quality, if one is willing to belabor a metaphor—she’s a celestial object drawn by the magnetism of the aforementioned black hole, and she not only resists the invitation to disappear but also tries to find a spark inside the dead star that she can reignite.

The Green Room: GROOVY

Avanti! (1972)

          It seems fair to call Avanti! not only the best of Billy Wilder’s four ’70s features, but also his last truly satisfying movie—although such remarks may strike readers as damning with faint praise, since Wilder’s late-career output is unquestionably inferior to the classics he made in the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s. Indeed, Avanti! pales next to, say, Some Like It Hot (1959), but, quite frankly, what comedy doesn’t? That said, Avanti! compensates for significant shortcomings with copious amounts of charm, cleverness, and wit. Although the picture never scales comic heights, instead generating mild amusement from start to finish, it puts across a farcical love story with credibility and sensitivity. Just as importantly, Avanti! reteams Wilder with his most frequent leading man, Jack Lemmon, the perfect interpreter for Wilder’s brand of male angst.

          The story takes place in Italy, where American businessman Wendell Armbruster Jr. (Lemmon) travels to collect the remains of his father, recently killed in a car crash. Before long, Wendell realizes that his father died alongside a female companion, whose daughter, Pamela Piggott (Juliet Mills), travels to Italy to claim her mother’s body. Myriad complications prevent Wendell from achieving his simple goal. Pamela agitates to have the bodies buried in Italy, because that’s where her mother and Wendell Sr. met for annual trysts over the course of a decade. Italian bureaucrats smother Wendell with paperwork. Gangsters steal the corpses in order to extort money. Meanwhile, Wendell slowly evolves from being a fussbudget preoccupied with propriety into an emotional being vulnerable to Pamela’s appeal, echoing the way Wendell Sr. changed during his visits to Italy. Everything in the story is contrived and schematic, of course, but it works. Or, to place a finer point on the matter, it works well enough.

          Adapting a play by Samuel A. Taylor, Wilder and frequent writing partner I.A.L. Diamond expertly coordinate a slew of running gags, weaving comedy and romance together with grace and style. What their adaptation sorely lacks, however, is economy—Avanti! runs a preposterous 140 minutes, with myriad scenes that could easily have been omitted or at least trimmed. The movie is never boring for more than a moment or two, but the narrative bloat diminishes the overall impact. So, too, does the fixation on Pamela’s weight, which, to modern sensibilities, seems as Neanderthal as the film’s overt statements to the effect that all successful men are entitled to mistresses. As always in Wilder’s films, adultery is a joke instead of a cruel betrayal. Still, Lemmon and Mills come off remarkably well, as does Clive Revill, an Englishman dubiously cast as an Italian hotel manager; for a film suffused with authentic local flavor, thanks to alluring location photography and lovely Italian music, Revill’s casting is a false note, albeit an inoffensive one.

Avanti!: GROOVY

Death Dimension (1978)

It’s time to put your brain on lockdown once more, because that singular purveyor of low-budget cinematic stupidity, Al Adamson, is at it again. Death Dimension, the title of which has no discernible significance, is a sci-fi/espionage/martial-arts thriller starring the unfortunate Jim Kelly, a skilled athlete whose ascension to stardom following Black Belt Jones (1974) was impeded by his inability to act. Death Dimension—which is also known in some quarters as Black Eliminator, Freeze Bomb, The Kill Factor, among other titles—tells the loopy story of a scientist who hides designs for a weather weapon in a microchip, then surgically implants the microchip into the forehead of his pretty assistant. Once the scientist is killed, the assistant becomes a target. Assigned to protect her or recover the research or whatever—because, really, who cares?—is LAPD detective Ash (Kelly). Portraying Ash’s boss is George Lazenby, who starred as James Bond in one movie, and the 007 connection continues with the movie’s villain, “The Pig,” who is played by ex-Bond villain Harold “Odd Job” Sakata. Sort of. Keen ears will notice that Sakata’s dialogue was dubbed by character actor James Hong. And so it goes. Death Dimension jumps from one pointless scene to the next, stopping at regular intervals for Kelly to effortlessly defeat hordes of opponents; this is one of those dimwitted action movies in which the hero becomes a target for every bad guy in the world the instant he accepts his dangerous assignment. For added spice, Death Dimension contains lots of misogynistic material, including a bizarre scene during which “The Pig” uses a snapping turtle as an interrogation tool by holding its snout close to a woman’s breast. “One bite, and he’ll make you flat-chested!” If you watch Death Dimension after having perused these remarks, you have only yourself to blame.

Death Dimension: LAME

Dirty Duck (1974)

Two years after Ralph Bakshi’s Fritz the Cat became the first X-rated cartoon, Dirty Duck—sometimes known as Down and Dirty Duck or Cheap—arrived to test the public’s appetite for even more counterculture weirdness involving anthropomorphized animals. Like the iffy sequel The Nine Lives of Fritz the Cat, also released in 1974, Dirty Duck proved that X-rated animal pictures were not a growth industry. Crude on every level, Charles Swanson’s Dirty Duck pairs ugly, low-budget animation with tiresome content. Made in collaboration with eccentric rock duo Flo & Eddie, better known as Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan, formerly of the Turtles, Dirty Duck features numerous original Flo & Eddie songs, and Volman and Kaylan play the leading voice roles. Kaylan portrays an insurance-company drone named Willard, who dreams of not only escaping his demeaning professional life but also of scoring with women. Thanks to convoluted circumstances involving a suicidal madam, Willard becomes the guardian of a talking duck, who is voiced by Volman. Despite the title, most of the screen time is devoted to Willard and his sexual fantasies. (In one bit, Willard’s penis magically assumes the size and shape of a bullet train as it pummels the nether regions of a compliant female.) Nothing in Dirty Duck is amusing or titillating, since Swanson conveys something like a teenaged boy’s snickering attitude toward sex, and the filmmakers often try so hard for boundary-pushing hipness that they stumble into pointless vulgarity; a song praising sexual experimentation suggests that viable lovemaking partners might include a tree or a corpse. Even the self-referential music jokes are disposable, notably an image of Frank Zappa (whom Flo & Eddie occasionally supported) and a snippet of “My Sweet Duck” to the tune of George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord.” Ultimately little more than a hardcore Water Mitty rendered with grungy visuals, Dirty Duck deserves its obscurity.

Dirty Duck: LAME

Who? (1973)

          Check out the bizarre storyline of this obscure Cold War thriller, which was produced in the UK. The American scientist supervising a top-secret project has an auto accident while traveling in East Germany. Recovered by Russian spies, the scientist is given a metallic mask and various metallic prosthetics to replace the parts of his body that were destroyed. Then, six months after the accident, the Russians surrender the scientist to American authorities, who must determine whether he’s really the missing scientist before returning him to top-secret work. After all, since the man no longer has a human face, his identity is open to question. Not only is this story predicated on technology that doesn’t exist, but the makeup/mask effect that’s used throughout the film is absurd. Actor Joseph Bova, playing the disfigured scientist, wears a cheap-looking silver skullcap, complemented with goofy silver makeup. Seriously, the Tin Man costume in The Wizard of Oz (1939) was more convincing, and that picture was made more than three decades earlier. The physical appearance of this critical character is so distracting that it nearly dooms the entire film.

          Yet it’s not as if Who?—which is sometimes marketed as Robo Man—suffers just one major flaw. The movie is problematic from top to bottom. Elliot Gould gives a disinterested performance in the nominal leading role, playing an FBI agent tasked with determining the true identity of the metal man. Trevor Howard, grossly miscast, employs an all-over-the-place accent while portraying Gould’s Soviet counterpart in deliberately perplexing flashbacks that are intercut throughout the movie. Worst of all is the movie’s entire first hour, which portrays the metal man’s time in FBI custody. This interminable stretch features one drab dialogue scene after another, an issue exacerbated by the fact that Bova can’t make facial expressions thanks to his makeup. Things pick up slightly once the metal man is set free, because the filmmakers draw the pathos of this unfortunate fellow’s circumstances to the surface. One might even go so far as to call parts of the movie’s final half-hour soulful—even though the film never surmounts its inherent awkwardness.

Who?: FUNKY

Disco Fever (1978)

How much do titles matter? Let’s use this low-budget music movie as a case study. Although the picture has disco elements, including the principal location of a nightclub and a subplot about the rise of a wannabe disco singing star, the flick is not actually about disco. Rather, it’s about a nightclub owner who exploits a former teen idol, using his notoriety to gain publicity. While there isn’t a single original idea in the picture, the acting is adequate and the general arc of the piece is more or less satisfying in an empty-calories sort of way. (Anyone who’s ever encountered a story about an artist being asked to sell out will be able to predict the entire storyline.) Disco Fever even has something akin to credibility, since the main character is played by Fabian Forte, a real-life former teen idol. So here’s the problem with the title. Anyone buying a ticket for something called Disco Fever would, naturally, expect something in the vein of the previous year’s Saturday Night Fever. Thus, consumers willing to support any old movie with disco themes were hoodwinked, and the filmmakers who generated a borderline passable showbiz melodrama were precluded from reaching moviegoers who might be interested in the actual content of the picture. No big loss either way, but still. In any event, a couple of peculiar things about Disco Fever are worth mentioning. Famed radio personality and sometimes actor Casey Kasem plays the teen idol’s manager—making this the second of two movies in which Kasem served as Forte’s foil, the first being Soul Hustler (1973). Additionally, George Barris, the self-proclaimed “King of the Customizers” whose main claim to fame was creating the Batmobile for the 1960s Batman TV show, not only appears as himself in this movie, but he also wrote the story and served as one of the project’s executive producers. Holy Random Credits, Batman!

Disco Fever: LAME

The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash (1978)

          Until the 2004 premiere of Spamalot, the stage musical that he adapted from Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975), this made-for-TV mockumentary was Eric Idle’s most noteworthy accomplishment outside of the work that he did as a member of the Monty Python comedy troupe. An elaborate spoof of the Beatles told in the form of a TV retrospective about a fictional band, The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash was written by Idle, who also co-directed the piece with Gary Weis, and he plays several roles. A couple of Idle’s fellow Pythons appear, as do several rock-music luminaries—including, wink-wink, one of the real Fab Four, George Harrison. Plus, since Saturday Night Live creator Lorne Michaels produced the project, a number of Not Ready for Prime Time Players show up: Dan Aykroyd, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner.

          It would be exaggerating to say that the star wattage completely outshines the material, but that’s close to the truth—some scenes in The Rutles merely re-create famous Beatles moments and/or songs with only the slightest of comedic tweaks. Flip side, the best segments of The Rutles are enjoyably droll. Furthermore, the sheer verisimilitude of the piece, replicating everything from camera angles to costumes to songs, puts The Rutles nearly on par with Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (1982) and Zelig (1983) in terms of impressive mimicry.

          The “story” of The Rutles will seem awfully familiar. A group of kids form a scrappy band, become popular with female fans, cohere into a sophisticated musical unit, experiment with drugs and sociopolitical messages, and finally drift apart. (In sum, “a musical legend that will last a lunchtime.”) Although many famous songs are parodied (“Help!” is lampooned by “Ouch!”), many of the tunes are patchworks of Beatles-esque melodies and lyrics. Occasionally, the gags have satirical edge, as when the Beatles’ “Let It Be” is referenced by the Rutles’ “Let It Rot”; considering Paul McCartney’s misgivings about the Let It Be album and the link that project has to the Beatles’ final days, the “Let It Rot” gag has teeth. An even meaner joke of the same stripe is the runner about the Rutles’ manager being preoccupied with his clients’ tight trousers. Presumably Idle meant no disrespect to Beatles manager Brian Epstein, who was gay, but still—a bit nasty, that one. Conversely, Idle occasionally replaces historical figures with totally dissimilar characters, for instance featuring a distaff artist in Nazi regalia where one would expect to find an analogue for Yoko Ono.

          For all the care the filmmakers took in re-creating things, some of the best jokes are unrelated to the Beatles—one recurring bit involves Idle playing a TV host who endures an antagonistic relationship with his cameraman. Ultimately, The Rutles does little to tarnish the Beatles’ reputation, but the derivative nature of the piece, as well as the hit-0r-miss quality of the humor, defines The Rutles as a minor effort. Nonetheless, the Rutles concept has endured. Originally introduced during a sketch on a 1970s BBC show that Idle created, the Rutles regrouped in the late ’90s, starred in The Rutles 2: Can’t Buy Me Lunch (2002), and even became a touring band, usually with Idle’s musical partner and the cocreator of the Rutles concept, Neil Innes, occupying center stage. 

The Rutles: All You Need Is Cash: FUNKY

Blindman (1971)

          Energetic and fast-paced but also silly and a little bit trashy, this spaghetti western enjoys minor cult status because ex-Beatle Ringo Starr plays a supporting role. Yet Blindman is moderately enjoyable on its own merits. The plot is typical spaghetti-western weirdness, predicated on outlandish schemes and superhuman abilities, suggesting that star Tony Anthony (who also provided the story) studied the genre. Beyond the usual tropes of overwrought music and wild camera zooms, Blindman includes themes of heroism, pride, and revenge, all delivered by way of a lone-wolf protagonist who’s an artist with his six-shooters. As promised by the title, said protagonist is sightless, so every scene in which he hits a target is inherently ridiculous.

          Vigorously directed by Ferdinando Baldi, the picture begins with Blindman (Anthony) rolling into a small town looking for trouble. As in, he’s there to find a man named “Trouble.” Apparently that fellow knows the location of the 50 women whom Blindman purchased. To get Trouble’s attention, Blindman repeatedly shoots the bell of a church tower. After Blindman learns that the women were kidnapped by a criminal named Domingo, Blindman embarks on an adventure to recover his “property.” Turns out the ladies were imported from Europe as mail-order brides, so it’s not as if either Blindman or Domingo wants a personal harem; rather, they hope to sell the women for profit. Much of the picture comprises back-and-forth scenes during which Blindman takes the women from Domingo or vice versa, with Domingo’s brother, Candy (Starr), caught in between.

          Is this stuff as insane as it sounds? Yes and no. On a narrative level, Blindman is bizarre, since very little of what happens onscreen could actually occur in reality. Yet on an experiential level, Blindman lacks the fever-dream quality of, say, Sergio Leone’s spaghetti-western masterpieces. Anthony and Baldi take time to set up characters and situations, as if doing so will make the flick seem more credible. It does not. That said, Anthony, Baldi, and their collaborators muster a handful of decent action scenes, so the film moves along nicely. Still, there’s only so high this picture can fly, because the acting is merely serviceable, and because the film’s treatment of women is grotesque. Just because the story is set during a historical period when women were treated poorly doesn’t justify the incessant abuse of female characters or the myriad nude scenes.  

Blindman: FUNKY