Tropic of Cancer (1970)

          Tropic of Cancer is a nasty barrage of sex, scheming, and vulgarity, leavened with a strain of ironic literary observation. However, this combination of elements should come as no surprise given the subject material: Tropic of Cancer is the only feature-length adaptation of notorious American writer Henry Miller’s work. The sex-crazed Miller’s adventures as an expat living in France also inspired the 1990 biopic Henry & June—yet while the latter film was a straightforward narrative infused with sophisticated erotica, Tropic of Cancer is a grungy experimental film punctuated by seedy simulated sex. In Tropic of Cancer, nearly every physical encounter has a grim punchline, whether it’s the revelation that one of the partners has VD or a glimpse of one partner stealing money from the other.

          Our guide through these vignettes is Henry Miller (Rip Torn), a perpetually impoverished writer who occasionally takes day jobs doing things like editing copy for an English-language newspaper, but mostly subsists on favors from friends. A hobo without a permanent address, he crashes on couches, takes hotel rooms whenever he has money in his pocket, and persuades fellow Americans to feed him even though he offers virtually no consideration in return. In addition to leeching off everyone he knows, Henry spends every waking moment trying to get laid, indiscriminately sleeping with prostitutes, strangers, and the wives of his friends.

          Director Joseph Strick presents these events in fragmented little bursts, loosely connected by voiceover featuring Torn reading from Miller’s books. (Unfortunately, most of the voiceover comprises crudely rhapsodic descriptions of female sex organs.) Parisian location photography adds authenticity, although it’s peculiar that Strick shot the picture with modern clothing (circa 1970) instead of matching the 1930s era during which most of Miller’s real-life Gallic exploits took place.

          Muddying the waters further is Torn’s casting and characterization. Constantly unkempt, flashing a devil’s smile full of yellow teeth, and relentless about seeking his own pleasures no matter the cost to others, Torn’s version of Miller is an irredeemable cretin, so it’s hard to know what reaction Strick hoped to elicit: Was the idea to document the extremes of a rare man, or to incarnate Miller’s ideas about the “honesty” one finds in embracing animal instincts?

          The picture never speaks clearly enough to make a strong statement one way or another, and Strick’s choice to fill the screen with naked women undercuts whatever artistic aspirations might be present—Tropic of Cancer ends up feeling like a pretentious nudie flick. Still, for adventurous viewers, Tropic of Cancer may be worth exploring for hidden virtues. Furthermore, the presence of an uncredited Ellen Burstyn in the movie provides some interest; the future Oscar winner appears briefly, mostly without clothing, as Henry’s quasi-estranged wife.

Tropic of Cancer: FREAKY

Siddhartha (1972)

          Originally published in 1922, German author Hermann Hesse’s novel Siddhartha later became a touchstone for the counterculture generation. A poetic exploration of one man’s lifelong search for meaning, the story offers a simple but deep parable about looking past the pleasures of the flesh to find fulfillment in oneness with the universe, a theme that resounded mightily with seekers in the ’60s and ’70s. One such seeker, filmmaker Conrad Rooks, tackled the thankless task of bringing Siddhartha to the screen, even though the project was doomed from the start, commercially speaking; exacerbating the fact that spiritual journeys rarely sell popcorn, the book is so beloved that no movie could live up to impossible expectations.

          However, viewed by someone who isn’t a member of the novel’s fan base, Siddhartha is an earnest and quite beautiful film. Rooks’ screenplay (to which Paul Mayersberg and Natasha Ullman contributed) doesn’t try to communicate the depth and nuance of the source material. Rather, the script merely catalogs things that happen to the lead character, Siddhartha. Building from this base, Rooks uses intoxicating cinematography and music to create a ruminative atmosphere that contextualizes narrative events. So, while devoted fans of the novel might scoff that Rooks’ adaptation is oversimplified, another way to look at the movie is to say that Rooks’ adaptation is purified: He whittled the book down to an essence even casual viewers can grasp. Whether this approach honors Hesse’s book is for others to say, but there’s no disputing the film’s strongest virtues.

          First and foremost, the cinematography by frequent Woody Allen/Ingmar Bergman collaborator Sven Nykvist is rapturous. Shooting at vibrant locations throughout India, Nykvist captures subtle textures of light, from the way sunbeams dance across the surface of a river at dusk to the way a canopy of trees dilutes morning sunlight in a dense forest. The film’s atmosphere is so evocative that viewers can almost feel branches crunching underfoot while characters walk. Few movies offer such a potent sense of place, and for this particular story, which involves a man learning how to escape the mortal plane, intense physicality is essential. The music, by an assortment of Indian musicians, is equally involving, with pulsing rhythms and undulating melodies working their way into viewers’ brains like welcome guests. At its best moments, Siddhartha is hypnotic.

          That said, the performances have a perfunctory quality. Leading man Shashi Kapoor is handsome and sincere, just as leading lady Simi Garewal is overpoweringly seductive. However, the actors mostly read their lines in monotones, delivering such flat performances that Kapoor’s lone crying scene, which occurs toward the end of the picture, is a startling disruption of the emotional status quo. An argument could be made that quiet acting suits this story about characters learning to hear inner voices, but that’s a stretch. Still, Siddhartha is compelling despite its imperfections.

Siddhartha: GROOVY

The Betsy (1978)

          Stupid and trashy, but inadvertently amusing exactly because of those qualities, The Betsy was adapted from one of Harold Robbins’ shamelessly eroticized potboiler novels. Like Jackie Collins and Jacqueline Susann, Robbins made a mint writing sleazy books about rich people screwing each other over (and just plain screwing), so anyone expecting narrative credibility and/or thematic heft is looking in the wrong place. That said, The Betsy delivers the type of guilty-pleasure nonsense that later dominated nighttime soaps like Dallas and Dynasty, along with some R-rated ogling of celebrity skin. And the cast! Great actors slumming in this garbage include Jane Alexander, Robert Duvall, Tommy Lee Jones, and the legendary Laurence Olivier. They’re joined by young beauties Kathleen Beller, Lesley-Anne Down, and Katharine Ross, all whom disrobe to some degree; Beller’s memorable skinny-dip scene helped make this flick a regular attraction on cable TV in the ’80s.

          The turgid story revolves around Loren Hardeman (Olivier), an auto-industry titan who rules a fractious extended family. Now semi-retired and confined to a wheelchair, Hardeman hires maverick racecar designer/driver Angelo Perino (Jones) to build a new car with terrific fuel efficiency, because Hardeman wants to leave as his legacy a “people’s car” like the Volkswagen Beetle. This plan ruffles the feathers of Hardeman’s grandson, Loren Hardeman III (Duvall), who wants to get the family’s corporation out of the money-losing car business. As these warring forces jockey for control over the company’s destiny, with Loren III’s college-aged daughter, Betsy (Beller), caught in the middle, old betrayals surface. It turns out Hardeman the First became lovers with the wife (Ross) of his son, Loren II, driving the younger man to suicide. This understandably left Loren III with a few granddaddy issues. There’s also a somewhat pointless romantic-triangle bit involving jet-setter Lady Bobby Ayres (Down), who competes with Betsy for Peroni’s affections. Suffice to say, the story is overheated in the extreme, with characters spewing florid lines like, “I love you, Loren, even if I have to be damned for it,” or, “I always knew it would be like this, from the first time I saw you.”

          John Barry’s characteristically lush musical score adds a touch of class, Duvall somehow manages to deliver a credible dramatic performance, and Alexander is sharp in her small role. However, Beller, Down, Jones, and Ross coast through the movie, trying (in vain) not to embarrass themselves. As for Olivier, he’s outrageously bad. Hissing and/or screaming lines in an inept Midwestern accent, Olivier has no sense of proportion, playing every scene with such intensity that his work reaches the level of camp. Especially since Olivier was still capable of good work at this late stage of his life (see 1976’s Marathon Man), it’s depressing to watch him flounder.

The Betsy: LAME

The Mind of Mr. Soames (1970)

          A compelling oddity, The Mind of Mr. Soames is a British drama with a sci-fi flourish starring Terence Stamp as John Soames, a 30-year-old man who fell into a coma while an infant. When clever American surgeon Dr. Michael Bergen (Robert Vaughn) contrives a way to stimulate Soames’ brain and free him from his lifetime of slumber, Soames enters the world as a 30-year-old baby with no idea how to eat, speak, or walk. Conflict soon arises between Bergen, a compassionate father of two who advocates a nurturing approach to Soames’ development, and Dr. Maitland (Nigel Davenport), a hard-liner who believes Soames should be rushed through disciplined education in order to become a functioning member of society. Since Maitland has legal custody over Soames, Bergen is forced to sit on the sidelines as Maitland’s iron-fisted approach turns Soames into the equivalent of a troubled child.

          Thus, when Bergen builds rapport by busting the man-boy out of his hospital room for a joyous play date outside, Maitland becomes infuriated that another doctor is producing better results. Fast-moving and focused, The Mind of Mr. Soames works as a slow-burning thriller, steadily building toward the inevitable moment when Soames escapes and tries to make his way in the world. The movie also works as a drama of ideals, exploring questions about what happens when civic responsibility and human compassion clash—Bergen and Maitland are both “right,” since each wants what he perceives as the best outcome for the patient, though the film unequivocally portrays Maitland as a villain whose actions are guided by repression.

          The film’s key performances are quite effective, with Vaughn suppressing his Man from U.N.C.L.E. flair to present an authoritative sort of clipped intellectualism, and Davenport playing uptight Englishness to the hilt. Stamp makes the most of a wild role, somehow retaining his dignity while making goo-goo-gaga sounds, parading around in onesies, and receiving baby food through spoon-feeding. The final stretch of the movie, in which Soames wanders the countryside frightened and hungry, is touching and terrifying at the same time, since the filmmakers create tension around the question of whether Soames will fall victim to the outside world or succumb to animal instincts and lash out in violence. All in all, The Mind of Mr. Soames is solid stuff. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

The Mind of Mr. Soames: GROOVY

The Eiger Sanction (1975)

          The mountain-climbing flick The Eiger Sanction is one of the silliest action movies Clint Eastwood ever made. Working outside his comfort zones of cowboy melodramas and urban crime thrillers, Eastwood plays a college professor (!) who moonlights as a hit man (!!) and must employ his mountain-climbing skills (!!!) to smoke out the identity of an elusive murderer (@#*#!!!!). Based on a novel by one-named ’70s escapist-fiction phenom Trevanian, The Eiger Sanction features a plot so contrived it would give Alistair MacLean pause. Every single element of the film, from the ridiculous lengths government agents take to whack one inconsequential killer to the presence of an albino control freak running a vicious black-ops organization, stretches credibility way beyond the breaking point.

          The Eiger Sanction is also one of those movies in which so much time is spent preparing for the big event (in this case, a treacherous climb up a sheer mountain face) that the purpose of the mission gets hopelessly obscured. If several mountain climbers are suspects, for instance, why not simply capture and interrogate all of them instead of wasting so much time? Furthermore, the idea that reluctant hired gun Dr. Jonathan Hemlock (Eastwood) is the only man for the job is laughable: He’s expensive, famous (and therefore ill-suited to undercover work), insubordinate, and unpredictable, yet somehow hiring him is deemed pragmatic. Still, movies like The Eiger Sanction ask viewers to turn off their brains in order to groove on visceral thrills, and with Eastwood pulling double-duty as director and star, thrills are never in short supply.

          Eastwood stages exciting chase scenes in European cities, enjoyable training montages in which his character is coaxed and teased by a shapely coach (Brenda Venus), and, of course, death-defying climbing scenes set on the rocky surfaces of snowy mountains. Eastwood’s efforts to conjure crowd-pleasing nonsense are aided by the work of composer John Williams, who contributes rousing adventure music, and by the enthusiastic performances of supporting players Jack Cassidy (as a queeny international operative), Thayer David (as the aforementioned albino), George Kennedy (as Eastwood’s friend/trainer), and Vonetta McGee (as Eastwood’s duplicitous love interest). So, even though The Eiger Sanction is preposterously overlong at 123 minutes, and for that matter simply preposterous, at least it’s energetic and good-looking.

The Eiger Sanction: FUNKY

Myra Breckenridge (1970)

          The notorious flop Myra Breckenridge tries so hard to be outrageous that, after a while, it’s just boring to watch even though the storyline is a sensationalistic farce about a scheming transsexual. Based on a satirical novel by Gore Vidal, the picture follows Myron Breckenridge (Rex Reed) as he undergoes sex-change surgery to become Myra Breckenridge (Raquel Welch) in order to get revenge on his skeevy uncle, Buck Loner (John Huston), who swindled Myron’s inheritance.
          Throughout the picture, Welch interacts with other performers while Reed lurks on the sidelines, visible only to Welch as his/her character’s inner voice. (This device allows Reed to issue caustic commentary and to guide Welch through her underhanded machinations.) As if more weirdness was necessary, director Michael Sarne regularly cuts from the action to snippets from old Twentieth Century-Fox movies (think Laurel & Hardy, Shirley Temple, and so on), providing “ironic” counterpoints to the main story.

          Putting the whole thing way over the top is the casting of onetime sex symbol Mae West as a talent agent who gets embroiled in the story; ancient and overweight but glamorized as if her former sex appeal is still intact, West floats through the movie in outlandish costumes, dropping rude one-liners and singing a pair of horrible show tunes. Huston’s contribution to the strangeness is performing in cartoonish cowboy costumes (his ten-gallon hat features a brim that must be four feet across) and barking every line in a lascivious growl. Reed, the flamboyant film critic whose claim to fame in the ’60s and ’70s was jaded bitchiness, contributes absolutely nothing except jaded bitchiness. As for Welch, the allure of her spectacular beauty wears thin once she starts acting, since she delivers dialogue with a vapid breathiness that makes her sound like a posturing twit.

          Still, Myra Breckenridge is among the most brazen X-rated movies from the brief moment when studios actually made X-rated movies. The raunchiest scene is undoubtedly Myra’s sexual conquest of a young stud (Roger Herren), because she ties him to a table, straps on a dildo, and anally rapes him while hooting and hollering like she’s riding in a rodeo. (The scene is shot discreetly, but the content is nonetheless startling.) In another transgressive moment, Myron (who is actually Myra imagining that he/she is still Myron) pleasures himself while imagining a pretty girl (Farrah Fawcett) tempting him with ice cream and baked goods.

          Myra Breckenridge had a dour effect on the professional lives of nearly everyone involved, destroying Carne’s Hollywood career, dissuading Reed from acting again until his cameo in Superman (1978), and dashing Welch’s hopes of being taken seriously as an actress. Some many find this movie’s mannered excesses amusing in a campy sort of way, and Myra Breckenridge is a must-see for anyone cataloging the worst cinematic train wrecks of the ’70s, but the picture doesn’t come close to being the scandalous farce its makers obviously envisioned.

Myra Breckenridge: FREAKY

Little Murders (1971)

          Written by celebrated cartoonist/satirist Jules Feiffer, and based on his successful off-Broadway play of the same name, Little Murders is one of the most oppressively cynical Hollywood movies from a period during which audiences briefly embraced downbeat subject matter because of a dour national mood. So, even though the picture is way too weird for most viewers, Little Murders is significant as an illustration of just how bummed-out some Americans were in an era characterized by political assassinations, social unrest, and the Vietnam War. Chronological context is necessary for discussing the picture, because otherwise, the storyline would seem pointlessly absurd and sadistic.

          Elliot Gould stars as Alfred, a New York City photographer so numbed by societal decay that he endures daily beatings from local thugs without complaint, and makes his living taking photographs of excrement. Alfred meets Patsy, an overbearing New Yorker who decides to pull Alfred from his stupor, and he halfheartedly commits to a relationship. Patsy drags Alfred to meet her loony family, which includes a motor-mouthed father (Vincent Gardenia) who’s perpetually on the verge of a heart attack, a somnambulistic mother (Elizabeth Wilson) who pretends everything happening around her is hunky-dory, and a perverted little brother (Jon Korkes) who giggles inappropriately and hangs out in closets.

          This leads to an outrageous wedding scene officiated by a sardonic hippie, the Rev. Henry Dupas (Donald Sutherland), during which Alfred and Patsy exchange vows to tolerate each other until they don’t feel like tolerating each other, and to screw around if they feel like doing so. (The wedding scene ends with Patsy’s father tackling the reverend.) Then, after a bleak plot twist, a weird police detective named Lt. Practice (Alan Arkin) arrives to add a layer of officially sanctioned insanity to Feiffer’s satirical universe.

          Making his directorial debut after achieving fame as a comic actor, Arkin plays this outlandish material straight, even though some of the performances (notably his own) are so broad they seem better suited to other movies. Additionally, cinematographer Gordon Willis shoots Little Murders in the same shadowy style he later brought to the Godfather pictures, making an already gloomy narrative feel even more oppressive. This sober approach makes it difficult to find humor in the film’s barrage of random violence and senseless tragedy. Even more problematically, Feiffer’s characterizations are so odd that his underlying literary intention is unclear: Are these characters meant to be people or metaphors?

          Not knowing whether to invest emotionally in the characters, or simply observe them like animals in a zoo, is the biggest challenge in watching Little Murders. There’s no question that the picture is made well, particularly in the area of cinematography, and the acting is formidable: Gardenia expends Herculean effort riffing through dense dialogue, Gould finds pathos in his sad-sack characterization, and Sutherland is very funny in his single scene. But does it all add up to anything more than, “Life’s a bitch and then you die?” Maybe.

Little Murders: FREAKY

All the Kind Strangers (1974)

          Stories about malevolent rednecks were all the rage in the post-Deliverance era, but this made-for-TV thriller takes the redneck genre in an odd new direction. Furthermore, the picture features a slew of actors more frequently seen in big-screen features, plus smooth work by veteran director Burt Kennedy, who was just starting his drift back to the small screen after a solid run of theatrical features. Stacy Keach stars as Jimmy, a New York photojournalist trolling the backwoods of the U.S. for interesting stories. One afternoon, he spots an innocent-looking young boy, Gilbert (Tim Parkinson), walking down a rural byway with an armload of groceries. Jimmy offers to give the kid a lift home, which becomes a miles-long odyssey down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. Jimmy is alarmed to meet Gilbert’s impoverished, sullen family, which is led by Gilbert’s twentysomething older brother, Peter (John Savage).

          The only adult in the ramshackle house is Carol Ann (Samantha Eggar), whom the kids call “Ma” but who clearly isn’t old enough to be the matriarch of the clan. It turns out the family’s parents died some time ago, so Peter invented a scheme of kidnapping adults to play the role of mother and father; as Jimmy soon discovers, those not suited to the role have been killed and disposed of in a nearby creek. Jimmy tries to escape several times with Carol Ann, but Peter and his faithful pack of dogs keep bringing the couple back to their weird prison. Since All the Kind Strangers was made for TV, some of the kinkier implications of the storyline go unexplored, and the movie wraps up somewhat abruptly in 74 minutes, making the whole thing feel like a bit of a cheat.

          Still, the caliber of acting is unusually high for this sort of thing, with Keach channeling rage and Eggar personifying terror while Savage provides compelling derangement and Robby Benson, playing his second-in-command sibling, lends an offbeat vibe of perverse masochism. (Benson also sings the movie’s twee theme song.) Even better, this creepy little movie is enlivened by vibrant location photography. In fact, had the story been given a bit more room to breathe in terms of edgier content and a longer running time, All the Kind Strangers would have made an interesting theatrical feature.

All the Kind Strangers: FUNKY

Someone Behind the Door (1971)

          Actor Charles Bronson tended to play it safe, bouncing between the only slightly varied genres of lighthearted action movies and violent action movies. However, he occasionally slipped an oddity into the mix, like this clever psychological thriller featuring Bronson as an amnesiac exploited by a ruthless shrink. However, big air quotes should be placed around the word “clever” since the plot of Someone Behind the Door falls apart on close inspection, with convenient twists and narrative inconsistencies leaving scads of questions unanswered. Nonetheless, the movie zips along at a strong pace, there’s a thick air of menace surrounding everything that happens, and costar Anthony Perkins thrives in his comfort zone as a tweaked smartypants using his wits to plan the perfect murder.

          The story takes place in France, where American-born doctor Laurence Jeffries (Anthony Perkins) specializes in brain surgery and memory loss. Leaving the hospital one evening, he spots an amnesiac man (Bronson) whom fishermen found wandering on a local beach. Offering the stranger a place to stay and free psychiatric services (under the auspices of helping with a research project), Jeffries brings the man home and helps the stranger piece together clues about his past based upon circumstantial evidence and items Jeffries finds in the man’s garments. Or at least that’s what Bronson’s character thinks. In reality, Jeffries is deluding the stranger into thinking he’s married to Frances (Jill Ireland), who is in fact Jeffries’ adulterous wife; Jeffries’ devious scheme is to push the stranger toward killing Frances’ lover so Jeffries can off a romantic rival and pin the murder on the stranger.

          Perkins runs the show from start to finish, his insinuating line deliveries and wily glances capturing an insidious type of blue-blooded villainy. For his part, Bronson makes a decent scene partner by demonstrating more excitability than usual. The movie gets a bit drab when it veers away from these two sharing the screen (Ireland is her usual vapid self), and some viewers may find the plot glitches too distracting. However, Someone Behind the Door is consistently tense, and the charisma of its leading players makes it worth examination.

Someone Behind the Door: FUNKY

The Haunting of Julia (1977)

Slightly creepy in moments but deadly dull overall, The Haunting of Julia is yet another ’70s horror picture about a woman whose maternal instincts are tested by the presence of an evil child, complete with a starring performance by Mia Farrow, who became a star by appearing in the granddaddy of this particular subgenre, 1968’s Rosemary’s Baby. While the best creepy-kid movies follow a simple supernatural premise to its logical extreme, The Haunting of Julia awkwardly fuses two concepts, creating narrative confusion. Is the story about Julia Lofting (Mia Farrow) recovering from the death of her own child, or is the story about Julia getting spooked by the spirit of a dead little boy who once lived in her house? And which of these deceased kids, if either, is responsible for the string of grisly murders claiming the lives of people around Julia? Or is Julia insane and actually committing the murders herself? Answers to these questions may or may not be buried within The Haunting of Julia, but only diehard fans of either Farrow or the creepy-kid genre will have the patience to investigate. Most of the picture comprises dull montages of Farrow driving, moping, or sleeping, all scored with disquieting keyboard suites topped by eerie synthesizer flourishes. Composer Colin Towns works overtime to infuse the picture with atmosphere even when nothing’s actually happening, just like supporting player Tom Conti provides welcome comic relief as Julia’s easygoing best friend. Furthermore, because Farrow is palatable in the leading role, basically reprising her Rosemary’s performance, The Haunting of Julia has redeeming qualities. What it lacks is entertainment, even though a few characters die colorfully, and even though a nice run of disturbing scenes ensues when Julia investigates the death of the little boy. More material like that would have helped.

The Haunting of Julia: LAME

Silver Streak (1976)

          A box-office hit that gave birth to the on-again/off-again screen duo of funnymen Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor, Silver Streak is impossible to take seriously for the same reason it’s impossible to dislike: The movie forgoes credibility in order to entertain viewers by any means possible. Essentially a Hitchcock-type thriller played for laughs, the movie follows an unassuming book editor (Wilder) during a cross-country train trip filled with unexpected danger, intrigue, and romance. As the tale grows more and more absurd, George stumbles into a dalliance with a sexy secretary (Jill Clayburgh), gets caught in the crosshairs of an evil conspirator (Patrick McGoohan), befriends a jive-talkin’ thief (Pryor), and survives accidents and near-misses in airplanes, cars, and trains. He gets arrested, chased, framed, shot at, thrown off a moving train, and targeted for murder, and yet he displays great moral character by striving to save his new lover and triumph over the bad guys.

          It’s all very silly, especially with the contrived McGuffin plot device relating to priceless letters written by Rembrant, but everyone involved in Silver Streak approaches their work with the same lighthearted attitude. Director Arthur Hiller keeps things moving briskly, creating comfortable spaces in which his actors can showcase their likeable personalities, and writer-producer Colin Higgins, whose gift for character-driven comedy distinguished ’70s movies like the great Harold and Maude (1971) and the effervescent Foul Play (1978), pumps the movie full of amusing one-liners. So, even though the picture drags on far too long and gets mired in bland action sequences like the elaborate shootout during the climax, Silver Streak is consistently watchable.

          Much of the credit goes to Wilder, who mostly eschews his signature hysterics while playing a straightforward romantic lead; he’s surprisingly believable as a dashing man of the world sharing flirtatious banter with Clayburgh, and his reaction shots whenever things get wild are priceless. Clayburgh is appealing in her mostly decorative role, while Pryor slides into an easy buddy-movie rapport with Wilder. Their obvious shtick, predicated on the differences between a streetwise African-American and an uptight honky, is epitomized in the famous scene of Pryor covering Wilder’s face with shoe polish and teaching Wilder to act like a “brother.” There’s no denying the humor of Wilder emulating urban swagger, but there’s also no denying the way the scene perpetuates demeaning stereotypes. Still, Silver Streak is too milquetoast to seem offensive: The racially insensitive gags are just tools the movie uses to elicit cheap laughs, and it’s hard to get angry at a picture whose only goal is making viewers happy.

Silver Streak: GROOVY

Cinderella Liberty (1973)

          In Cinderella Liberty, James Caan works his sensitive side by playing John Baggs Jr., a sailor who gets stuck in the Pacific Northwest when the Navy misplaces his records. Stranded on dry land and eager for a good time, John hits a raunchy bar and wins the favors of a hooker named Maggie Paul (Marsha Mason) in a pool game. Returning to her place for a tryst, John is startled to meet her preteen son, a streetwise mixed-race kid named Doug (Kirk Calloway). As John’s unwanted shore leave extends from days to weeks, he finds himself drawn back to Maggie and her child, realizing he’s more interested in setting down roots than he thought.

          Adapted by Darryl Ponicsan from his own novel, Cinderella Liberty tells the bittersweet story of an unlikely love affair, and though there’s no getting around the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold cliché at the center of the story, Ponicsan and director Mark Rydell ensure that sentimentality is almost completely excluded from the story. The lead character is depicted as an interesting contradiction, because on the one hand he’s a moralist who detests foul language, but on the other hand he’s comfortable brawling and carousing. Meanwhile, Maggie is a woman so accustomed to disappointment that she’s accepted her demeaning lot. They inspire each other to want more from life, so when tragedy strikes their fragile surrogate family, we discover how much each is willing to fight for what they’ve built together.

          At 117 minutes, Cinderella Liberty is a bit windy for a straightforward romantic drama, and the colorful subplot about Baggs’ love/hate relationship with a former supervisor (Eli Wallach) feels unnecessary until a surprising payoff at the end of the picture. However, Rydell’s sensitive direction, lush photography by ’70s-cinema god Vilmos Zsigmond, and richly textured performances make the picture compelling and substantial. As for the leading players, Caan finds an interesting groove, portraying an introspective man occasionally drawn out of his shell by heated emotions, and Mason is bawdy and sad and vulnerable, delivering such expressive work that Cinderella Liberty earned her the first of her four Oscar nominations as Best Actress.

          The picture also provides a worthwhile complement to The Last Detail, another 1973 movie about sailors getting into trouble on the mainland—because The Last Detail was, not coincidentally, adapted from an earlier novel by Cinderella Liberty scribe Ponicsan.

Cinderella Liberty: GROOVY

Dragon Lady (1971)

Shot under the title Wit’s End, then given the lurid moniker Dragon Lady for broader release, this exploitation picture was made in Singapore with a cast mixing Americans and Asians. Adding to its dubious pedigree, the flick was retitled yet again as The G.I. Executioner when the shlockmeisters at Troma Entertainment put the movie back into theaters and on home video in the mid-’80s. By any name, however, this is a poorly made compendium of fetishistic violence and leering nude scenes, strung together with a powerful but out-of-place acid-rock score. There’s a germ of an interesting story buried under the muck, because protagonist Dave Dearborn (Tom Keena) is an opportunistic American stitching together a living in a foreign land by taking disreputable odd jobs for hoodlums; a few years after this turkey hatched, director Peter Bogdanovich tackled a similar storyline in his world-class drama Saint Jack (1979). Yet while Saint Jack is a sly character study, Dragon Lady is only a few steps removed from a grungy porn film: Dearborn is constantly in and out of bed with anonymous women, and the climax of the picture features a naked, silicone-enhanced actress racing around a boat while she shoots villains and gets stabbed. The story has something to do with a Chinese scientist trying to deliver military secrets to the West, but the plot is really just a thin excuse for Dearborn to get embroiled with assorted sleazy characters. In a typically crude scene, he gets drugged and chained while wearing a spangled pink vest and harem paints, because, apparently, even the men of Singapore can’t keep their hands off him. In another scene, Dearborn hides under a bed while a prostitute services a john several inches above his face, and then Dearborn chokes a snake that’s crawled under the bed with him; the implied masturbation metaphor is as close as the movie once titled Wit’s End gets to wit.

Dragon Lady: LAME

Foreplay (1975)

          Yet another in a long line of ’70s sex comedies that are neither sexy nor funny, this three-part anthology picture feels like an attempt to capture the raunchy spirit of Playboy magazine’s humor, but inept execution makes Foreplay feel more sleazy than satirical. In the first installment, “Norman and the Polish Doll,” deadpan comedian Pat Paulsen plays a horny everyman who buys a lifelike female doll (Deborah Loomis) for sexual high jinks, only to realize she’s been programmed to nag instead of fondle. Paulsen’s droll line readings get drowned out by insipid slapstick (for instance, he steps in a toilet on the way to the bath) and he’s frequently upstaged by Loomis’ nudity (it’s difficult to focus on jokes when her lissome figure is on display).

          The second installment, “Vortex,” is moderately better, but still not particularly good. Based on a story by respected scribe Bruce Jay Friedman, the piece stars a young Jerry Orbach as a swinger visited by a muse (George S. Irving) who manifests as a doughy Italian man wearing only red bikini briefs. The muse takes Orbach’s character back to the scenes of several near-miss sexual encounters, each of which turns out to be just as frustrating the second time around. Orbach tries valiantly to form a characterization, and “Vortex” almost works. Almost.
          The final episode, “Inaugural Ball,” directed by future Rocky helmer John G. Avildsen, stars Zero Mostel as a U.S. president whose daughter is kidnapped. The criminals demand that in exchange for the release of his child, the commander-in-chief must mount his first lady (Estelle Parsons) on national TV. The closest “Inaugural Ball” gets to wit is the moment when Mostel solemnly announces his decision to comply with the demand: “Call the surgeon general. Tell him to prepare a massive dose of testosterone.” Mostel’s performance is smotheringly loud, which accentuates the crude nature of the comedy throughout “Inaugural Ball,” and the piece drags on forever. (Linking the three stories together are crass interstitial bits in which a clownish professor, played by Irwin Corey, presents a vulgar lecture about sexual topics.) All in all, Foreplay has the exact opposite effect of the activity described in its title: It’s a complete turnoff.

Foreplay: LAME

10 Rillington Place (1971)

          Since Richard Attenborough is best known to American audiences for directing Gandhi (1982), and for portraying the grandfatherly developer in Jurassic Park (1993), it’s a shock to see him playing a psycho in 10 Rillington Place, a methodical crime drama about a killer whose crime spree scandalized postwar England. Yet Attenborough commits wholeheartedly to the role of John Christie, a working-class nobody who manages a grimy apartment building and habitually slaughters young female tenants, burying the bodies in a small garden adjoining his building.
          Directed by versatile but unstylish helmer Richard Fleischer, 10 Rillington Place matches several strong performances with persuasive physical details, creating a strong sense of everyday danger. The main focus is Christie’s relationship with his upstairs lodgers, struggling young couple Timothy John Evans (John Hurt) and Beryl Evans (Judy Geeson). Timothy is a simple man, illiterate and prone to angry outbursts, while Beryl is an unhappy housewife who knows she deserves more. When the couple becomes pregnant, they agree to an abortion but can’t afford to have the procedure done in a hospital. Their kindly downstairs neighbor Mr. Christie offers to help, claiming that he picked up medical knowhow during military service.
          The considerable tension in 10 Rillington Place stems from the ease with which Christie contrives means of disguising his murders as accidents; furthermore, the movie takes on a more insidious layer of intrigue once Christie frames an innocent man for his crimes. 10 Rillington Place eventually transforms from a murder story to a legal thriller, and the tissue holding the picture together is Attenborough’s chilling performance as a sociopath determined to get away with murder. His work is complemented by the equally good acting of Geeson and Hurt; Geeson communicates her character’s believable dismay at a dead-end living situation, while Hurt transitions gracefully from the bravado of a man lording over his household to the terror of a naïf trapped by incredible circumstance.
          Ultimately, 10 Rillington Place is as tragic as it is horrific, for while the picture doesn’t have many jump-out-of-your-seat jolts, the methodical way it illustrates Christie’s rampage demonstrates how easily an intelligent monster can hide in plain sight. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

10 Rillington Place: GROOVY

Deliverance (1972)

          Even though it contains one of the most infamous scenes of the ’70s, there’s so much more to John Boorman’s shattering action thriller Deliverance than “Squeal like a pig!” Adapted for the screen by poet James Dickey from his own novel, the picture follows four city-slicker Southerners during an ill-fated trip down the (fictional) Cahulawasee River in the dense wilderness of rural Georgia. Lewis (Burt Reynolds) is the de facto leader of the group because he’s a veteran outdoorsman, Ed (Jon Voight) knows his way around the woods but can’t match Lewis’ wild-man bravado, Drew (Ronny Cox) is a soft-spoken urbanite more comfortable with a banjo than a rifle, and Bobby (Ned Beatty) is an overweight everyman along for the ride. Spurred on by Lewis, the men decide to take a canoe trip before the river is dammed to create a lake; for Lewis, the challenge is conquering a disappearing wilderness, and for the others, the kick is escaping the urban grind.

          Right from the opening frames, Boorman creates an ominous atmosphere, best exemplified by the legendary “Dueling Banjos” scene. When the gang pulls up to a riverbank settlement, Drew engages an odd-looking (and presumably inbred) boy in a banjo-picking contest, but the musical bond shatters when Drew tries to shake the boy’s hand; the scene perfectly conveys that Lewis’ group has gone someplace where they don’t belong. Ignoring these portents, the gang hits the river and encounters rougher water than expected, figuratively and literally. Before long, their weekend of “roughing it” devolves into a violent nightmare when the boys find themselves at odds with violent locals.
          In the unforgettable “squeal like a pig” scene, for instance, Bobby is sexually assaulted by a vicious redneck (Bill McKinney), an act that compels Bobby’s compatriots to seek bloody revenge. The great accomplishment of Deliverance is that Boorman and Dickey convey the disturbing notion that nature itself is battling the interlopers—the rednecks are like antibodies battling invading toxins. Boorman also creates a dreamlike quality, notably when a wounded Ed climbs a sheer cliff as the sky undulates with unnatural colors behind him. Throughout the film, Boorman treats merciless rapids like a special effect, showing how easily a river can swallow a man.
          Realizing Boorman’s vision perfectly, cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond found innovative ways to shoot in difficult situations and captured the terrifying beauty of a resplendent backwoods milieu. As for the acting, all four leading players contribute some of the best work of their careers. Voight is humane and vulnerable, perfectly illustrating a man driven beyond his natural capacity for violence by an insane situation, while Beatty and Cox present different colors of modern men whose animal instincts have been dampened so thoroughly they cannot withstand nature’s onslaught.
          Yet the picture in many ways belongs to Reynolds, who instantly transformed from a lightweight leading man to a major star with his appearance in Deliverance. Funny and maddening and savage, he’s completely believable as a he-man whose bluster hides a deep need to prove his own virility. The physicality of Reynolds’ performance is incredible, whether he’s steering a canoe or working a bow and arrow, and Reynolds went just as deep psychologically.
          Deliverance is hard to watch given the intensity of what happens onscreen, but the acting, filmmaking, and writing are so potent that it’s impossible to look away. Accolades showered on the film included Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Editing.

Deliverance: OUTTA SIGHT

The Prisoner of Zenda (1979)

          British funnyman Peter Sellers’ ability to play multiple roles in the same film had gotten to be a crutch by the late ’70s, and many of his final films, including Revenge of the Pink Panther (1978) and The Fiendish Plot of Fu Manchu (1980), rely on the gimmick of hiding Sellers behind silly accents and even sillier costumes. So, while The Prisoner of Zenda goes light on facial prosthetics and outrageous wardrobe, the central contrivance of Sellers playing both an endangered monarch and his commoner lookalike is so unimaginative that watching the movie becomes a chore. Having said that, Sellers isn’t entirely to blame, because everything about this flick is tiresome. Although the Anthony Hope novel upon which the film is based provides such a solid narrative that the tome has been adapted for the screen several times, the producers of this version opted for a style of lighthearted irreverence that requires inspired scripting; put more bluntly, The Prisoner of Zenda is a satire that isn’t funny.
          Rudolf V (Sellers) is the ruler of a small European country in the late 19th century. While traveling in England, Rudolf is targeted for assassination, so his underlings recruit a salty London cab driver, Syd (Sellers), to stand in for the king. Unfortunately, the handlers withhold key information from their dupe, who finds himself mired in palace intrigue he doesn’t understand. The straightforward premise should lead to culture-clash comedy, but instead, the filmmakers focus on idiotic bedroom farce and laborious slapstick. For instance, one running gag involves a hot-blooded count (Gregory Sierra) perpetually trying to start a duel with Syd because Rudolf is sleeping with the count’s wife (Elke Sommer); this leads to scenes of the count getting knocked down on streets, set on fire, and so on. Making matters worse, the filmmakers don’t give Sellers scene partners worthy of his skills, so he flounders as competent but utilitarian actors deliver bland performances. If Sellers looks bored playing his trite dual roles, who can blame him?

The Prisoner of Zenda: LAME

Sparkle (1976)

          A routine showbiz melodrama enlivened by great music, Sparkle leaves virtually no cliché untouched. Written by future director Joel Schumacher, from a story by Howard Rosenman, the movie follows the exploits of three young women who try to escape life in the New York ghetto by singing soul music in nightclubs circa the 1950s and ’60s. Inspired by the real-life adventures of vocal groups like the Supremes, Sparkle in turn inspired the creation of the 1981 Broadway musical Dreamgirls, which was of course adapted for the screen in 2006. Continuing the pop-culture recycling, a remake of Sparkle was released in 2012, featuring the late Whitney Houston’s final acting performance.
          Given how enduring this movie and its imitators have proven to be, one might expect Sparkle to shine, but it’s merely an energetic trifle.

          That said, it’s not difficult to see what fans like about the picture, because the combination of a rags-to-riches showbiz saga and overheated domestic melodrama gives Sparkle campy zing as it hoots and hollers through 98 music-filled minutes. The figure at the center of the story is Stix, played by Philip Michael Thomas of Miami Vice fame in an amateurish but endearing performance. He’s a would-be music mogul who recruits several friends (both male and female) to form a singing group. Almost immediately, Sister (Lonette McKee) becomes the breakout member of the group, ostensibly because of her showboating vocals but really because she’s a sexy knockout.

          Stix shrinks the group into a vocal trio called Sister and the Sisters, in the process marginalizing his sweet girlfriend, Sister’s younger sibling Sparkle (Irene Cara). As Sister’s fame grows, she falls in with an abusive, drug-addicted manager named Satin (Tony King), which starts Sister down the path of self-destruction. Eventually, Stix persuades Sparkle it’s her turn to shine. As in Fame (1980), Cara makes an impression with her unique combination of an unassuming screen presence and a powerhouse voice.

           McKee is just as potent a singer, so the musical sequences of Sparkle are wonderful; in fact, the real star of the movie is soul-music legend Curtis Mayfield, who wrote and produced the movie’s songs. (One tune, “Something He Can Feel,” became a breakout hit from the film’s companion album, on which Aretha Franklin sang the lead vocals.) Furthermore, McKee is quite beautiful in the film, and she gives the picture’s best dramatic performance as her character suffers a precipitous decline. (Mary Alice offers a rock-solid counterpoint as the mother of the singing sisters.)

          Sparkle has many virtues in terms of music and performance, so it’s ironic that the film’s least interesting element—its story—has enjoyed the longest life. Yet there’s a reason why people play sad songs over and over again; like a favorite tune, Sparkle presses so many familiar buttons that it’s the equivalent of comfort food.

Sparkle: FUNKY

Savages (1972)

          According to the all-knowing Wikipedia, this bizarre Merchant-Ivory production was born when director James Ivory had the idea to flip the story of Spanish surrealist Luis Buñuel’s 1962 movie The Exterminating Angel. In Buñuel’s picture, a posh dinner party devolves into primeval savagery, so in Ivory’s cinematic retort, a group of primitive people become gown- and tuxedo-wearing sophisticates. Presumably, the satirical intention was to suggest that the cutting remarks and sarcastic gestures of an upper-crust dinner party are as brutal as the violent rituals of wild tribes, but that message gets buried in a barrage of unrelenting weirdness.
           The movie opens with a ’30s-style title sequence, complete with cabaret singer Bobby Short crooning on the soundtrack. Then the movie shifts from color to black-and-white as the presentaton becomes that of a nature documentary observing a tribe called “The Mud People.” Silent-movie-style title cards offer explanatory and/or sardonic commentary, and there’s also a random trope featuring voiceover spoken in German. At one point, a croquet ball flies into the tribe’s encampment, so the Mud People follow the trail of the ball and find an abandoned country manor. Picking through jewelry and silverware, the Mud People mimic behaviors associated with the objects, at which point the film suddenly cuts to full color, and the actors playing the Mud People suddenly become bluebloods chit-chatting their way through a dinner party. (Familiar faces among the cast include ’70s starlet Susan Blakely, future B-movie regular Martin Kove, and a very young Sam Waterston.)
           Once the movie settles into its dinner-party groove, Savages becomes something like a dry run for Merchant-Ivory’s many later pictures about the troubles of the wealthy, with cascades of numbingly polite conversation about political differences and romantic intrigue. However, within the crisply articulated dialogue is a strong thread of lighthearted surrealism: Two of the partygoers are cross-dressers (see the above photo); characters periodically devolve into savagery by mounting each other in small rooms off the main hall; and the gang worships a shrine built around the croquet ball. Toward the end of the picture, the characters suddenly lose their sophistication (and their clothes), running back into the woods to become Mud People again.
            Obviously, none of this makes any sense, although particularly cerebral viewers could probably have a field day analyzing the anthropological and sociopolitical signifiers with which the movie is laden. Plus, the picture might appeal to cult-movie fans because the script was co-written by Michael O’Donoghue, the notorious National Lampoon/Saturday Night Live writer/performer known as Mr. Mike and loved/hated for his dark sketches; fans of his bone-dry humor might find traces of Mr. Mike insouciance somewhere in Savages. For most viewers, however, Savages will simply seem boring and weird, although the picture affirms Merchant-Ivory’s brave willingness to try new things.

Savages: FREAKY

The Next Man (1976)

          While primarily a suspense film about a diplomat being targeted by a femme-fatale assassin, The Next Man slips in a few provocative ideas about the never-ending conflicts in the Middle East. It also features an authoritative performance by Sean Connery as a man who tries to change the world with his wits, rather than his fists, even though The Next Man is one of several pictures in which the Scotsman is incongruously cast as an Arab. While it would be fabulous to report that this picture pulls its disparate elements together in a compelling way, The Next Man is, sadly, meandering and unfocused.

          The set-up is simple enough: Amid a climate of rampant political assassinations, Saudi Arabian ambassador Khalil Abdul-Muhsen (Connery) stirs up international controversy by suggesting during a speech at the United Nations that Israel should become a member nation of OPEC, the Arab-controlled oil-production consortium. Meanwhile, he’s seduced by sophisticated beauty Nicole Scott (Cornelia Sharpe), who is actually an international assassin tasked with killing him.
          The big problem with the movie is twofold: First, viewers learn Nicole is an assassin before she even meets Abdul-Muhsen, so there’s no mystery about her motivation, and second, once she becomes sexually involved with the ambassador, she has countless opportunities to kill him that she does not exploit. Particularly since Abdul-Muhsen’s enemies perceive his continued existence as a threat, it makes no sense that the conspirators would delay the inevitable, especially since the trite subplot in which Nicole grows to love her target never rings true.
          The fault for the ineffective romance angle lies partly with the script, since Nicole is presented as such a cipher we have no way of gauging which feelings are true and which are deceptions, and partly with Sharpe’s performance. A long and lean blonde with piercing eyes, Sharpe was understandably successful as a fashion model, but she’s lifeless as a dramatic actress.
          As directed TV veteran Richard C. Sarafian, who helmed a number of pulpy oddities in the ’70s, The Next Man has a few effective scenes, like a siege on Abdul-Muhsen’s vacation home in the Bermudas, but the lack of credibility in the main onscreen relationship, combined with the awkward juxtaposition of talky political scenes and violent action sequences, steer The Next Man way off course. Connery’s charisma, the offbeat subject matter, and Sharpe’s beauty make the picture watchable, but just barely.

The Next Man: FUNKY

The Front (1976)

          In the ’70s (and the ’80s, for that matter), Woody Allen only acted in two movies that he didn’t direct, and both are winners. Yet while Play It Again, Sam (1972) is essentially a Woody Allen movie because he wrote the script based upon his own play, The Front is that true rarity: a for-hire acting gig. It’s not hard to guess why Allen joined the project, because in addition to providing him with a great role, the film chronicles an important period in modern American history. A scathing look a the effects of the anti-communist blacklist that ravaged show business in the ’40s and ’50s by purging left-leaning artists from the mainstream, The Front is a message picture done right, delivering its themes with grace and restraint while also providing rousing entertainment.

          The picture’s authenticity and passion steams from the harrowing offscreen experiences of several key players: Screenwriter Walter Bernstein, director Martin Ritt, and actors including costar Zero Mostel were all blacklisted. In the story, which is set in New York during the ’50s, writer Alfred Miller (Michael Murphy) learns that he’s about to get blacklisted, so he reaches out to his opportunistic friend, lowly cashier Howard Prince (Allen), for an unusual favor. In exchange for a percentage of Alfred’s profits, Howard is asked to put his name on Alfred’s TV scripts, submit them as if he wrote them, and attend meetings pretending to be a writer. This way, Alfred can continue making a living even though studios won’t officially employ him.

          “Fronting” was incredibly widespread during the blacklist era, and it represented a huge risk for everyone involved, but that’s only one of the nuances The Front brings to life. In addition to portraying Howard’s moral conflicts—he becomes an admired and wealthy public figure under false pretenses, and an idealistic TV story editor (Andrea Marcovicci) falls in love with the man he’s pretending to be—the movie depicts the insidious effect of the blacklist on comedian Hecky Brown (Mostel).

          An amalgam of several real-life performers pushed off the screen because of their past support for liberal causes, Hecky is a tragic figure in the classic mold, a small man caught in the machinations of political forces he barely understands. Watching the cruel anti-communist crusaders slowly destroy Hecky rouses Howard’s previously dormant conscience, and for anyone who thinks of Allen merely as a joker, it’s startling to see the clarity and intensity of his performance. Allen does justice to Bernstein’s clockwork script, in the same way that Mostel, who was prone to abrasive excess, delivers a humane and poetic portrayal. (This was Mostel’s last onscreen role, and a fitting epitaph for his epic career.)

          The best thing about The Front is that it’s a great yarn in addition to being a powerful civics lesson. With Allen delivering zingers in his inimitable style, and with Bernstein carefully depicting the devious way right-wingers persecuted progressives, The Front smoothly balances humor and pathos, all the way from its mood-setting opening montage to its whopper of a closing scene.

The Front: RIGHT ON

The People Next Door (1970)

          Similar in content to innumerable TV movies about suburban parents wrestling with their teenage kids’ drug use, The People Next Door is elevated by world-class cinematography and a smart script that shines an ironic spotlight on “acceptable” substance abuse by grown-ups. Part of the reason the piece goes down so smoothly is that it actually was a TV movie in an earlier incarnation; writer J.P. Miller and director David Greene made The People Next Door as a small-screen drama in 1968 before delivering the big-screen version two years later.
          The story explores the lives of Arthur Mason (Eli Wallach) and his wife Gerrie (Julie Harris), an all-American couple raising high-school student Maxie (Deborah Winters) and her older brother, recent high-school graduate Artie (Stephen McHattie). Artie is a longhaired rock musician involved with the counterculture, so he drives his father crazy. Meanwhile, Maxie can do no wrong in her parents’ eyes—until the night she wigs out on acid. Once Maxie sobers up, she reveals that she’s not only using drugs but also sleeping around.
          What’s more, she hates her parents for being phonies: Arthur is an adulterer, while Gerrie ignores reality by pretending everything is copacetic. The Masons try to coax Maxie back to their idea of a normal life, but an overdose renders her catatonic, forcing the Masons to institutionalize their “sweet little girl.” Miller’s unsubtle theme about troubles visiting even the best families is leavened by a secondary focus on Arthur’s drinking and Gerrie’s smoking, so the thought-provoking idea that everybody wants some form of escape from life comes through loud and clear.
          The acting in The People Next Door is effective if not particularly revelatory. Wallach does a fine job illustrating a man who is paradoxically strong-willed and terrified of confrontation. Harris is vulnerable essaying someone who has hid so long beneath a plastic shell that she barely knows herself anymore. And Winters, reprising her performance from the TV version, plays against her girl-next-door prettiness by unleashing a volatile mix of narcissism and rebelliousness. However, Hal Holbrook nearly steals the show as the Masons’ neighbor; his final scene is chilling for its mixture of anger and anguish. (Cloris Leachman is interesting but underused as the wife of Holbrook’s character.)
          The People Next Door is strongest when it dramatizes the way drugs exacerbate familial tension, and the movie wobbles when it tries to address larger issues like student protests. Overall, however, the movie offers a rational examination of subject matter that is more often depicted hysterically. In terms of tethering the storyline to a recognizable version of reality, the movie’s greatest virtue is the cinematography by Gordon Willis (The Godfather). Not only does Willis cloak scenes in his signature deep shadows, he finds sly ways of easing actors into dramatic compositions that poignantly accentuate the emotional distance between characters.

The People Next Door: GROOVY