Dawn: Portrait of a Teenage Runaway (1976)

          The little-girl-lost genre had a couple of banner years in 1979 and 1980, with sensational news stories about teen runaways inspiring numerous theatrical and made-for-TV features about young girls falling victim to psychos and sleazebags. Hence this telefilm starring Eve Plumb, famous for The Brady Bunch (1969–1974), as a sweet young thing who flees the heartland, hits trouble in Los Angeles, and becomes a hooker. Plus, as if the notion of virginal Jan Brady walking the streets wasn’t sufficiently distasteful, her character’s first john is played by William Schallert, the kindly dad from The Patty Duke Show (1963–1966). Is nothing sacred? The funny thing is that despite its salacious premise, Dawn: Portrait of a Teenage Runaway is moralistic and uptight—so many characters urge the protagonist to rejoin conventional society that the picture feels like a stern PSA. This schoolmarm quality drains the movie of its potential vitality, resulting in flat and predictable storytelling. What’s more, Plumb is unconvincing when her character becomes a tough city girl, though she conveys wholesomeness well.

          The parade of clichés begins with Dawn (Plumb) taking a bus from her hometown because her single mom is too irresponsible to provide a proper home. The second Dawn sets foot in Hollywood, she's assaulted and robbed. On the bright side, sort of, she befriends a tough black hooker, Frankie Lee (Marguerite DeLain). Later, Dawn meets sensitive street boy Alexander (Leigh McCloskey), and they move in together, but Dawn is so innocent that their relationship is platonic. When money troubles become intolerable, Dawn asks Frankie Lee for an introduction to her pimp, Swan (Bo Hopkins). Naturally, he's a sadist with a thing for mind games. How deeply will Dawn sink into the skin trade before coming to her senses? Will one of her friends suffer a gruesome fate that makes her realize the error of her ways? Will a tough-talking social worker arrive to provide condescending lectures and sobering statistics? If you've seen even one movie of this type, you know the answers to all of these questions.

         The appeal of this utilitarian melodrama, such as it is, stems from watching a familiar face in a new context. Indeed, there's something unnerving about seeing Jan Brady in skintight slutwear, and in hearing her describe her first sexual encounter: "I felt nothing—just stared at the ceiling and became a woman. What a hype." Hopkins is somewhat menacing in a role so underdeveloped that describing it as one-dimensional would be exaggerating, and TV stalwart Georg Sanford Brown provides the requisite youthful gravitas as the social worker. A sequel titled Alexander: The Other Side of Dawn followed in 1977, earning cult status by depicting gay themes frankly. Plumb returned for Alexander, this time in a supporting role.

Dawn: Portrait of a Teenage Runaway: FUNKY

The Fifth Floor (1978)

          The Fifth Floor is a sleazy piece of business, essentially a woman-in-prison story transposed to a psych ward, juiced with a disco soundtrack, and adorned with dubious assertions that the story was based upon real events. The picture is watchable in an exploitation-flick sort of way, which means that tolerating the movie requires lowering one’s standards, and that actually enjoying the picture would require sacrificing a tiny bit of one’s soul. To be fair, The Fifth Floor is mild when compared to, say, the average grindhouse flick, because the lurid elements aren’t designed to make viewers nauseous, and there’s a sense of both consequences and morality. Still, because so much of the narrative revolves around humiliation presented as titillation, it’s not as if there’s some noble movie buried inside The Fifth Floor. Think One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with chases and rape scenes in place of satire and social commentary, and you’re close.

          Girl-next-door type Dianne Hull stars as Kelly McIntyre, a discotheque employee saving money for college. One night while shaking her groove thing on the club’s dancefloor, Kelly freaks out and loses consciousness. When she wakes, Kelly is told that she ingested strychnine. Authorities believe she did so intentionally. Despite Kelly’s protests to the contrary, she’s classified as suicidal and committed involuntarily to a psychiatric ward—the “fifth floor” of the title. Kelly gains unwanted attention from Carl (Bo Hopkins), a sociopathic orderly determined play mind games with Kelly as a kind of foreplay inevitably leading to rape. When Kelly reports Carl’s menacing behavior, doctors mistake her claims for paranoia, extending her stay in the psych ward—and when she tries to escape on several occasions, that adds even more time to her commitment.

          To complement the cat-and-mouse game between Carl and Kelly, the filmmakers give one-note personalities to some of the other patients. Benny (Robert Englund) is a sweet guy prone to play-acting as Dracula and other characters, Cathy (Patti D’Arbanville) is pregnant and worried about her baby, Derrick (Anthony James) is a dark-eyed brooder who seems forever poised on the brink of violence, Melanie (Sharon Farrell) is genuinely suicidal, and so on. These character arcs meander toward predictable and unsatisfying payoffs. Meanwhile, the protagonist endures all sorts of abuse, often while naked. Not exactly the stuff of a resonant cinematic statement.

The Fifth Floor: FUNKY

Charlie’s Angels (1976)

          Nearly all the elements that made the glossy detective series Charlie’s Angels popular are present in the feature-length telefilm that preceded the weekly show, and yet some early ideas that were later abandoned are in evidence, as well. The pilot is just as fluffy and silly as the rest of the series, although the T&A quotient is relatively tame considering how much focus was later given to displaying the series’ leading ladies in bikinis, cheerleader costumes, low-cut gowns, and such. Rather than cleavage and legs, the caveman-mentality focus is primarily on the “novelty” of beautiful women demonstrating competence as private investigators, although the distaff detectives get even more male supervision during the pilot than they usually did in their weekly adventures.

          The pilot introduces the three original protagonists—Jill Munroe (Farrah Fawcett-Majors), Kelly Garrett (Jaclyn Smith), and Sabrina Duncan (Kate Jackson)—receiving their first assignments from mysterious employer Charles Townsend (the never-seen character whose voice is provided by John Forsythe). In a brief prologue that later became the show’s iconic opening-credits sequence, viewers are told that the women graduated from the police academy only to be given thankless jobs, and then were hired to work for Townsend. The Angels, as Townsend calls them, take instructions from their direct supervisor, Woodville (David Ogden Stiers), a character who was dropped before the first regular episode. The ladies’ other male colleague is fellow detective John Bosley (David Doyle), portrayed in the pilot as a cheerful buffoon and later reworked as stalwart coworker.

          Written by series creators Ivan Goff and Ben Roberts—veteran screenwriters whose collaborative record stretches all the way back to the James Cagney classic White Heat (1949)—the mystery that the Angels explore in the pilot isn’t really a mystery. Undoubtedly bearing the fingerprints of producer Aaron Spelling, who made a fortune playing to the lowest common denominator of the American viewing audience, the narrative is spoon-fed to viewers, with every complication explained in a condescending manner. The daughter of a wealthy California vintner disappeared years ago, and now that the vintner has also disappeared, his estate may fall into the hands of his unscrupulous widow. It’s up to the Angels to determine whether anything shady is happening, thus prompting the usual cycle of Jill, Kelly, and Sabrina masquerading as various people in order to find information.

          The supporting cast features solid players Bo Hopkins and Diana Muldaur, as well as a young Tommy Lee Jones, and the whole thing drags a bit, not just because the thin story is stretched to almost 80 minutes but because composer Jack Elliot uses the series’ signature twinkling musical sting so many times the cue becomes annoying. Seeing as how Fawcett-Majors was the first season’s breakout star thanks to her dazzling barrage of big hair, erect nipples, and shiny teeth, it’s interesting to note that Smith gets the most screen time in this initial outing. As always, she’s lovely but vapid. In any event, Charlie’s Angels the pilot movie is exactly as disposable as any episode of Charlie’s Angels the series, so the appeal of watching the piece (besides eye candy) is the opportunity to examine the unremarkable beginnings of an enduring pop-culture franchise.

Charlie’s Angels: FUNKY

White Lightning (1973) & Gator (1976)

          The voiceover hype in the trailer says it all: “Burt Reynolds is Gator McCluskey—he’s a booze-runnin’, motor-gunnin’, law-breakin’, love-makin’ rebel. He hits the screen like a bolt of white lightning!” Indeed he does in White Lightning, arguably the best of Reynolds’ myriad ’70s flicks about working-class good ol’ boys mixin’ it up with John Q. Law. Whereas too many of the star’s Southern-fried action pictures devolve into silly comedy—including, to some degree, White Lightning’s sequel, Gator—the first screen appearance of Gator McCluskey is a sweaty, tough thriller pitting a formidable hero against an even more formidable villain. If you’ve got a hankering for swampy pulp, White Lightning is the gen-yoo-wine article.

          When the picture begins, Bobby “Gator” McCluskey (Reynolds) is incarcerated for running moonshine. Meanwhile, back home in the boonies, corrupt Sheriff J.C. Conners (Ned Beatty) causes the death of Gator’s little brother. Once Gator hears the news, he swears revenge and joins an FBI sting operation targeting Conners’ crew. Using a staged jailbreak for cover, Gator hooks up with a moonshiner named Roy Boone (Bo Hopkins) and penetrates Conners’ operation in order to dredge up incriminating facts. However, it’s not long before the no-good sheriff smells a rat, setting the stage for a showdown. Written by William W. Norton and directed by the versatile Joseph Sargent, White Lightning is a no-nonsense thrill ride. Even though the filmmakers cram all the requisite elements into the picture’s lean 101 minutes—including a love story between Gator and Roy’s girl, Lou (Jennifer Billingsley)—the focus remains squarely on Gator’s hunger for vengeance, which manifests in bar brawls, car chases, shootouts, and various other forms of 100-proof conflict.

          Working in the fierce mode of his performance in Deliverance (1972), Reynolds is a he-man force of nature, whether he’s punching his way through hand-to-hand combat or, in his own inimitable fashion, clutching a steering wheel and gritting his teeth while his character guides cars through amazing jumps. Reynolds’ fellow Deliverance veteran, Ned Beatty, makes a fine foil, especially because Beatty defies expectations by underplaying his role—hidden behind thick glasses, with his portly frame bursting out of tight short-sleeve shirts, he’s a picture of heartless greed. The gut-punch score by Charles Bernstain jacks things up, as well, so White Lightning lives up to its name—it goes down smooth, then burns when it hits your system.

          Reynolds let a few years lapse before returning to the character with Gator, which also represented the actor’s directorial debut. Essentially rehashing the narrative of the fist picture, but without the emotional pull of a murdered-relative angle, Gator finds our hero released from prison, again, to take down another corrupt lawman. What Gator lacks in originality, however, it makes up for in casting and production values. Country singer-turned-actor Jerry Reed gives great villain as smooth-talking redneck crook Bama McCall, chubby funnyman Jack Weston generates laughs as a sidekick prone to physical injury, and gap-toothed model-turned-actress Lauren Hutton lends glamour as Gator’s new love interest. (TV host and occasional actor Mike Douglas shows up in a minor role, too.) The sheer amount of property destruction in Gator is impressive, though the movie relies too heavily on spectacle since it can’t match the tension of its predecessor.

          Oddly, the weakest link in Gator is Reynolds’ performance, because the actor veers too far into comedy. By this point sporting his signature moustache and demonstrating his gift for pratfalls and other slapstick silliness, Reynolds seems to occasionally forget he’s making a thriller. Sure, some viewers might find this take on Gator McCluskey more fun to watch than the grim characterization in White Lightning, but it’s worth nothing that Gator helped start Reynolds down the slippery slope into his goofy Smokey and the Bandit and Cannonball Run movies. Gator’s worth a gander, since it’s hard to complain about a movie being too enjoyable, but it’s not as satisfying as the title character’s debut.

White Lightning: GROOVY

Gator: GROOVY

A Small Town in Texas (1976)

Man, if this one lived up to its poster, the movie would be killer. Unfortunately, A Small Town in Texas is not the lean, mean exploitation flick one might expect. It awkwardly straddles drive-in sleaziness and legitimate dramatic terrain, and a movie trying to be two things succeeds in being neither. For instance, leading man Timothy Bottoms, a strong presence when playing sensitive souls, is miscast as a rootin’-tootin’ wild man with a penchant for bikes, booze, and brawling, so the actor’s endearing persona is neutralized and the potential of the role is unrealized. When we meet Poke Jackson (Bottoms), he’s just gotten out of jail following a pot bust, and he’s ready for vengeance against Sheriff Duke (Bo Hopkins), the small-town cop who sent Poke up the river. Poke’s grudge against the lawman grows deeper when he realizes that the whole time he’s been in jail, Duke has been courting Poke’s girl, Mary Lee (Susan George). Had that been the whole story, A Small Town in Texas could have been a tidy little package of low-rent nastiness. Yet screenwriter William Norton adds a layer of political corruption that never quite coalesces into a worthwhile subplot, with Duke and rancher C.J. Crane (Morgan Woodward) executing some sort of power grab over their municipality. As a result of this extraneous material, the promising Duke/Poke tension gets dissipated, and poor Mary Lee gets relegated to whimpering while Duke threatens bodily harm against her once-and-future significant other. The action in A Small Town in Texas doesn’t get underway until the 40-minute mark, and even though things eventually become gruesome—beatings, deaths, explosions—the movie never tips over into the gleeful excess of gen-yoo-wine Southern-fried trash cinema. It’s all a bit too restrained, with tasteful widescreen compositions and solid production values, so in the most important particulars (for this sort of picture, that is), A Small Town in Texas fails to impress. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

A Small Town in Texas: LAME

The Killer Elite (1975)

          Part action picture, part conspiracy thriller, and part revenge epic, The Killer Elite is a mess. As directed by Sam Peckinpah, whose creative decline was rapidly underway at this point, the picture boasts a handful of exciting scenes and several vivid performances, but its intentions are as vague as its storyline. James Caan and Robert Duvall star as a pair of gunmen who work for a private espionage group that’s hired by the CIA for covert operations like securely transporting international political figures who’ve been targeted for assassination by foreign governments. For reasons that are never particularly clear, Hansen (Duvall) shoots Locken (Caan) after a successful operation, betraying his buddy and leaving Locken a near-cripple thanks to wounds to his elbow and knee.
          The movie then devotes about 30 minutes to methodical scenes showing Locken’s recovery; as soon as Locken’s back in fighting shape, Hansen conveniently surfaces with a contract to kill an Asian dissident (Mako). Locken recruits a driver (Burt Young) and a sniper (Bo Hopkins) to help protect the dissident and, with any luck, confront Hansen. Also layered into the story are a series of double- and triple-crosses involving Locken’s bosses (Arthur Hill and Gig Young). Oh, and there are ninjas, too. Lots of ninjas.

          None of it makes very much sense, but the journey is still somewhat interesting because Caan is so charismatic and because Peckinpah knows how to shoot action scenes. (Extensive San Francisco location photography is another plus.) When The Killer Elite clicks, it delivers visceral moments like a shootout in a crowded street that expands into a nasty high-speed car chase. When the movie doesn’t click, it delivers spastic sequences like the climactic confrontation, during which Locken’s crew takes on an army of ninjas aboard a decommissioned warship, all of which leads up to a big swordfight between two supporting characters. Whatever.

          Luckily, the picture knows better than to take itself seriously, so sarcastic humor is woven into nearly every scene. Caan’s buddy-movie shtick with his sidekicks is terrific (Young is consistently amusing and Hopkins is memorably twitchy), and it’s also entertaining to watch Caan’s character get exasperated whenever the dissident spouts Eastern philosophy. “I understand now,” Caan opines bitchily at one point. “He wants to go back and die on his native soil. It’s that salmon-up-the-river shit.”

The Killer Elite: FUNKY

Monte Walsh (1970)

          A lovingly photographed ode to an aging cowboy trying to make sense of his life in the waning days of the Old West era, Monte Walsh is evocative and humane despite glacial pacing and murky storytelling. One of the few films directed by the venerable cinematographer William A. Fraker, the picture looks fantastic from start to finish, with dusty scenes of hard men battling nature plus glamorously lit romantic vignettes; furthermore, the production design makes every costume and prop feel like a real object that’s been used for tough work. The authenticity continues through to the dialogue, which is effective in an unpretentious sort of way (“I ain’t gonna spit on my whole life,” the title character says when faced with the prospect of becoming a performer in a Wild West sideshow). The big problem with Monte Walsh is that for all of its insight and texture, the picture doesn’t have a particularly strong story.

          Based on a novel by Jack Schaefer, the tale concerns graying cowboys Monte (Lee Marvin) and Chet (Jack Palance), who struggle to find work as employers including straight-shooting rancher Cal (Jim Davis) lose market share to omnivorous conglomerates. Meanwhile, the boys fall into a violent ongoing rivalry with Shorty (Mitch Ryan), a younger man with a bad temper and a buffoonish tendency to show off his riding skills. Monte also has an ongoing quasi-romance with a French prostitute, Martine (Jeanne Moreau), and even though they talk about settling down, she knows Monte will be out riding horses until he dies.

          There’s a somber quality to the whole picture, as if every character knows a gloomy future awaits, and the film uses irony for effective counterpoint (Mama Cass sings a wistful theme song, “The Good Times Are Coming,” which is appears as a sad refrain throughout the movie). Unfortunately, even though many moments are touching, there’s a fundamental lack of psychological clarity, so heavy scenes of characters facing their demons are perplexing. For instance, what is Monte trying to prove during the movie’s biggest action scene, when he breaks a bronco over the course of a wild ride that destroys half a town?

         Despite the handicap of a muddy script, Marvin and Palance give plaintive performances, and the supporting cast is strong. Though Moreau is badly underused in one of her few English-language pictures (Monte Walsh isn’t terribly concerned with the lives of women), Davis, Ryan, Billy “Green” Bush, Matt Clark, and Bo Hopkins all essay vivid frontier types. FYI, Hollywood took another crack at Schafer’s novel when Monte Walsh was remade for television in 2003, this time with Tom Selleck in the title role.

Monte Walsh: FUNKY

The Nickel Ride (1974)

          The sort of downbeat character piece that enjoyed a brief but thrilling vogue in the ’70s, this drama about a mid-level crime boss features one of Jason Miller’s only leading performances in a major film. Oscar-nominated for his very first movie, The Exorcist, Miller was a complex figure whose onscreen career was impeded by his literary ambitions (he won a Pulitzer Prize for his play That Championship Season) and by ferocious alcoholism. Furthermore, while Miller was capable of conjuring amazing intensity as an actor, he was just as likely to underplay scenes to the point that his emotions barely registered on camera.

          Both extremes are visible in The Nickel Ride, which is as inconsistent as its leading man’s acting. Based on an original script by future Forrest Gump scribe Eric Roth, The Nickel Ride centers around Cooper (Miller), an ambitious but unlucky crook stuck somewhere in the middle rungs of the L.A. underworld. Cooper has spent years developing a grand scheme called “the block,” a group of warehouses that he hopes the city’s criminal element will use to store and transport stolen goods, but the project is on hold because the cops and criminals arranging protection for “the block” keep stalling. Thus Cooper not only overextends himself but also makes a deadly enemy of Carl (John Hillerman), a crime boss higher on the food chain, prompting Carl to enlist the aid of good ol’ boy Turner (Bo Hopkins), who may or may not have been hired to whack Cooper.

          As directed by sensitive dramatist Robert Mulligan (To Kill a Mockingbird), The Nickel Ride has authenticity and atmosphere to spare. Mulligan generates a quiet mood of everyday normalcy with hints of menace bubbling just beneath the surface, and cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth carefully highlights details and texture to create a strong sense of place in Cooper’s grimy neighborhood. The acting is uniformly good, even with the inconsistent energy level of Miller’s performance, so viewers feel like they’re firmly situated inside Cooper’s sad, small world. However the story isn’t as strong as the resources used to put it onscreen. Cooper comes across like a bystander in his own life until an extended sequence set at a woodsy resort, when gunplay raises the stakes for everyone involved. The narrative’s microscopic focus feels believable, but many sequences seem to meander because plot advancements are incremental.

          Still, there’s something poignant about watching Miller play a man incapable of realizing his potential, since the same was true in the actor’s brief life; by the time he died in 2001 at the age of 62, Miller hadn’t appeared in a major film for nearly a decade.

The Nickel Ride: FUNKY

Tentacles (1977)

The world was awash with Jaws rip-offs in the late ’70s, and for every aquatic amusement like Piranha (1978), there was a bottom-feeder like this Italian/American coproduction about an ornery octopus (or squid, depending on the scene) stalking the shores of Southern California. Since much of the picture was obviously shot in Italy, there’s a logic gap because the coastlines in many scenes don’t look right for the story’s American location, but of course that’s the least of the movie’s problems. The script, presuming there was one, is a string of drab clichés about wooden characters investigating mysterious maritime deaths, with an intrepid reporter trying to blame the trouble on corporate irresponsibility while a fish whisperer correctly identifies the murder weapons as, to quote the movie’s Italian-language title, Tenatacoli. Landlocked vignettes with slumming American actors (Claude Akins, Bo Hopkins, John Huston, Shelley Winters, even Henry Fonda) are juxtaposed with oceanic mayhem featuring Italian bit players, giving the flick a stitched-together feel. And while some of the fright scenes have decent jolts, the FX are pathetic: The illusion of the titular monster is created with crude animatronics, grainy rear projection, shoddy miniatures, and silly inserts of real octopi that look too small to pose any real threat. Things get completely absurd when the barely seen monster attacks a regatta, overturning dozens of boats while zooming through the water like a torpedo. A few stretches of the movie have so-bad-it’s-good zing, but for the most part it’s just depressing to watch Hopkins and Huston (the Hollywood stars with the most screen time) churn through pointless dialogue, often with Italian actors whose English-language lines are dubbed, when all the audience really wants to see is stuff like the climax in which the fish whisperer sics his two favorite killer whales on the giant octopus. No, really.

Tentacles: LAME

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing (1973)

Although Burt Reynolds filmed hours upon hours of cowboy stories for film and television in the ’60s, he only starred in one Western during his peak period of the 1970s and early ’80s, and the picture pales in comparison to similar films of the same period starring Reynolds’ buddy Clint Eastwood. Part of the problem is an episodic storyline with too many villains, and part of the problem is the movie’s indecision about whether it’s an action picture with a romantic subplot or a romantic drama with action scenes. It also doesn’t help that the misogyny quotient is off the charts. Reynolds plays Jay, an outlaw reeling from the rape and murder of his Native American wife, Cat Dancing. When Jay’s accomplices Billy (Bo Hopkins) and Dawes (Jack Warden) kidnap a woman (Sarah Miles) they find wandering in the wilderness, Jay prevents the thugs from raping her, and takes her with him when he abandons the gang. The woman, Catherine, is running from her monstrous husband, Crocker (George Hamilton), so eventually Jay and Catherine are stalked by Dawes, Crocker, and even a bounty hunter (Lee J. Cobb), whom Crocker hires. It’s all very convoluted, and the idea that Catherine falls for Jay because he reveals his tragic past is trite. Making matters worse, Reynolds and Miles lack chemistry, so the only sparks are between Reynolds and Warden, whose climactic confrontation is memorably brutal. A priceless actor no matter how he was cast, Warden contributes one of his most odiously villainous performances in Cat Dancing, so he’s almost worth the price of admission. The location photography is handsome, especially scenes in a snowy forest toward the end of the picture, but the narrative’s stop-and-start-rhythm prevents Cat Dancing from building up a head of emotional steam. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing: FUNKY