1980 Week: Heart Beat

          Given the endless fascination that people have for 1950s beatnik culture and especially for the work of Beat author Jack Kerouac, it’s surprising that no one’s attempted a proper biopic about the man. In fact, cursory research suggests this middling melodrama includes the first fictionalized onscreen depiction of Kerouac, who is played by the underrated actor John Heard as an earnest young man striving for meaning and recognition while also trying to reconcile the gap that exists between those two things. Yet Heart Beat isn’t primarily about Kerouac, who is merely one prong in a romantic triangle. The other people involved are Kerouac’s notorious pal Neal Cassady, an inspiration for one of the major characters in Kerouac’s classic 1957 book On the Road, and Cassaday’s wife, Carolyn, who wrote the memoir from which Heart Beat was adapted. The way that Kerouac gets lost in the shuffle is indicative of the narrative problems that plague Heart Beat. Although clearly made with care and conviction, the movie is indecisive and unfocused, trying to tell several stories at the same time and therefore serving none of those stories well.

          In the broadest strokes, Heart Beat explores the friendship between Jack (Heard), a straight-laced guy fascinated with the way Beats ignore the restrictions of Establishment culture, and Neal (Nick Nolte), a wild man who lives the Beatnik lifestyle to an extreme. Caught in the middle is Carolyn (Sissy Spacek), a society girl who impulsively joins Jack and Nick for an adventure into the unknown. Although Jack falls hard for Carolyn, he waits too long to make a move, and Neal swoops Carolyn into a torrid romance that later resolves into a conventional marriage. Before that happens, Carolyn is present for the creation of On the Road, which occasions a parting of the ways between Jack, who longs for mainstream success, and Neal, who resents having his life transformed into prose. Other friends drift in and out of the main characters’ vagabond existence, including Ira (Ray Sharkey), a loudmouth poet based upon the real-life Beat icon Alan Ginsburg. (Ira’s principal shtick involves screaming “cocksucker” in public places, which has the effect of reducing Ginsberg to a vulgar caricature.)

          During the first half of Heart Beat, in which writer-director John Byrum tracks the emergence of the romantic triangle, the movie is dull and meandering. During the second half, things get spicier, because Jack experiences success around the same time that Carolyn, Jack, and Neal attempt living as a threesome, with Carolyn moving between the beds of the two men she loves. Perhaps because of limitations in the source material (meaning Carolyn Cassidy’s book) and perhaps because of a failure of imagination on Byrum’s part, Heart Beat fails to genuinely illuminate its characters, thereby falling into the trap of simply re-creating interesting moments as museum dioramas. At its worst, the movie is a lifeless frame showcasing Jack Fisk’s immaculate production design, and sometimes the shadows cast by venetian blinds are the most compelling things onscreen. At its best, the movie gives Nolte room to portray Cassady as a merry prankster high on exploration and spontaneity.

Heart Beat: FUNKY

First Love (1977)

          The title of this romantic drama is slightly misleading, because the story depicts a relationship between two college students who have prior sexual experience. The nuance, therefore, is that the story dramatizes the first time the boy in this particular boy-meets-girl equation experiences true love. Yet even that doesn’t fully capture the tone of the picture, since the other major element of the story is the girl’s capriciousness, which stems from her simultaneous involvement with a man her father’s age. And while the picture is generally intelligent and serious, First Love still feels insubstantial. Even though the movie is acted with great sincerity and directed with a certain measure of elegance, everything just sort of happens, without any real sense of consequence.

          The hero of the piece is Elgin Smith (William Katt), an earnest and sweet young man who seems distracted from his coursework and from his part-time restaurant job because he’s preoccupied with practicing soccer moves and reading romantic books. His next-door neighbor, David (John Heard), is a swinger whose on-again/off-again girlfriend, Shelly (Beverly D’Angelo), wants to sleep with Elgin. Alas, Elgin is waiting for the real thing, having been underwhelmed by past sexual involvements. Enter Caroline (Susan Dey), with whom Elgin falls in love at first sight. Despite being aware that she’s involved with an older man, John (Robert Loggia), Elgin successfully woos Caroline, and they become a couple. Then, after an idyllic period of sex, sex, and more sex, Caroline reveals her demons, which threaten the relationship.

          Considering that First Love is an intimate character piece—and that it was based on a novel (Harold Brodkey’s Sentimental Education)—it’s surprising how indistinct the characterizations seem. Elgin waffles between naïve and worldly, changing whichever way the narrative wind blows, and Caroline teeters between self-centered and tormented. None of this feels like delicate articulation of prismatic individuals; rather, it feels like the filmmakers grabbing whichever element seems handy from scene to scene. Still, First Love is pleasant enough to watch. Directed by Joan Darling, a sitcom veteran making her feature debut (unusual for a woman in ’70s Hollywood), the picture has a glossy look right out of a Renaissance painting, and the acting is better than the material deserves, especially by supporting players D’Angelo and Heard. Plus, for those who enjoy a grown-up approach to onscreen sexuality, the love scenes are lengthy and mildly sensual. The picture also includes a very ’70s post-coital chat between Elgin and Caroline about female orgasms.

First Love: FUNKY

Between the Lines (1977)

          Having worked in the alternative-newspaper business well past the historical period during which Village Voice-style periodicals enjoyed their highest degree of sociopolitical relevance, I naturally harbor some romanticism for the idea of scrappy young liberals covering culture and politics in ways that cut against the mainstream grain. Yet even with my predisposition, I found Joan Micklin Silver’s movie about this subject matter, Between the Lines, massively underwhelming. Despite credibility of authorship (screenwriter Fred Barron worked at weekly papers in Boston, where the film is set) and despite a strong cast (many of the film’s young actors later gained notoriety), Silver failed to generate any real excitement. One intrinsic problem is the use of an Altman-esque mosaic approach to storytelling, because Silver lacks the artistry and madness to needed to replicate the controlled chaos of Altman’s pictures.

          Another significant issue is the fact that most of the male characters are schmucks who treat women terribly. This accurately reflects the time period being depicted—the ’70s were lousy with studs who shrouded macho egotism behind sensitive-guy posturing—but it’s not much fun to watch dudes demean the ladies in their lives. And, of course, one should not discount the quandary that’s layered into the DNA of real-life alternative newsweeklies, which is the eternal risk of hipocracy. Music critics lambaste Establishment values while accepting free concert tickets; pretentious writers bemoan the inability of the public to recognize good work, while simultaneously angling to get publishing deals; and wide-eyed idealists advocate left-leaning social models even though they’re engaged in purely commercial enterprises.

          To its credit, Between the Line touches on all of these themes, but the film does so in such an inconsequential manner that it’s hard to develop any engagement while watching characters debate thorny topics. Worse, Silver proves unable to escalate onscreen events into full-on comedy—Between the Lines may generate a titter or two, but nary a guffaw emerges. In sum, the movie is easier to appreciate than it is to enjoy. As for the plot, it’s painfully predictable—a heroic band of scrappy journalists struggles to maintain integrity after a money-grubbing publisher buys the paper for which they work. Cue blunt conversations about the “death of the counterculture.” Still, the cast is something. The male leads are Stephen Collins, Jeff Goldbum, and John Heard, and the leading ladies are Lindsay Crouse, Jill Eikenberry, and Marilu Henner. Also present are Bruno Kirby, Michael J. Pollard, and Lane Smith. Silver gives each of these actors room to exercise his or her personal style, so Goldblum naturally dominates with his hyperkinetic intellectualism, and Heard grounds the endeavor by staking out the moral high ground (except when it comes to women).

Between the Lines: FUNKY

On the Yard (1978)

          Given the overwrought norm of the prison-movie genre, the narrative restraint that defines On the Yard is refreshing. Based on a novel by Malcolm Braly, who also wrote the script, the picture is a character-driven ensemble piece about lifers and recidivists either building subcultures or struggling to maintain isolation. On the Yard exudes authenticity in terms of behavior, dialogue, motivation, and ordinary details—and while the film stretches credibility with a fanciful climax, Braly and director Raphael D. Silver quite literally bring On the Yard back down to solid ground for a melancholy denouement.
          From start to finish, On the Yard articulates the sobering truth that time is an equalizer for prisoners—one day’s crisis is the next day’s fading memory, because everyone in the big house has a story just as sad as the next guy’s. Yet even though the filmmakers convey deep empathy for the harsh existence of convicts, neither Braly nor Silver ignore the weight of the crimes that put their characters behind bars—On the Yard asks viewers to wrestle with the paradox that criminals simultaneously personify humanity and inhumanity.

          John Heard, an actor whose great skill is subtly injecting pathos into emotionally remote characters, stars as Juleson, an educated man incarcerated for killing his wife. Juleson tries to live in his mind, avoiding prison-yard politics and schemes, until he accidentally gets into hock with Chilly (Thomas G. Waites), a slick operator who rules the inmate population through contraband and gambling. The offbeat quandary driving the story is that Chilly realizes he must make an example of Juleson, even though he admires and likes the guy; concurrently, Juleson recognizes that if he acquiesces to Chilly’s pressure by doing a favor that breaks prison policy, he’ll become part of an insidious system. Complicating this fascinating battle of wills is a secondary struggle between Chilly and Blake (Lane Smith), the captain of the prison’s guards. At the very moment Chilly looks for ways to show mercy for Juleson, Blake cracks down on Chilly’s operation, forcing Chilly to publicly flex his muscle. Also woven into the story are the sagas of Morris (Joe Grifasi), a frightened little man meticulously planning an outrageous escape, and Red (Mike Kellin), a social misfit who keeps getting thrown back in jail because he can’t function in the outside world.

          Structurally, On the Yard is more novelistic than cinematic, but the languid rhythms of the narrative help generate surprises—the movie takes several unexpected turns that add thought-provoking dimensions. Furthemore, the terrific acting by nearly every member of the cast meshes with Braly’s strategy of placing believable people into unimaginable circumstances. Heard does especially good work, revealing Juleson’s anguish while emphasizing the man’s odd mixture of dignity and self-loathing; Waites beautifully illustrates the way Chilly teeters between power and impotence; and Grifasi and Kellin lend poignancy to their roles as pathetic men with few choices in life.

On the Yard: GROOVY

Chilly Scenes of Winter (1979)

          First, the good news: Chilly Scenes of Winter is a sensitive and thoughtful dramedy for grown-ups that features careful direction and across-the-board good acting. Now, the bad news: Chilly Scenes of Winter tells such an inconsequential story that, quite frankly, it’s a chore to watch. Given the picture’s middling nature, it’s noteworthy that United Artists made two attempts at turning Chilly Scenes of Winter into a hit. Initially, the film bore a happy ending—as did the source material, a novel by Ann Beattie—and the inane title Head Over Heels. That version was released in 1979 and flopped. Later, in 1982, UA restored the title of Beattie’s book but added a bummer finale, re-releasing the picture as Chilly Scenes of Winter. Surprisingly, the downbeat version did better, marking a rare instance of a studio reaping rewards by opting for artistic integrity over pandering. Still, two theatrical releases represents an awful lot of fuss over a feature directed by a minor art-house name, Joan Micklin Silver, and starring two performers without any measurable box-office mojo.

          John Heard, an excellent actor who lacks leading-man charisma, plays Charles, a Salt Lake City office drone. He’s obsessed with a former girlfriend, cute librarian Laura (Mary Beth Hurt). The present-day story depicts Charles’ struggle to find happiness while hoping that Laura will take him back, and this material is intercut with flashbacks telling the story of Charles’ and Laura’s relationship. At the time they met, Laura was married, but Charles wooed her relentlessly, which made Laura realize she was dissatisfied with her marriage. The catch was that Laura didn’t want to rush into another committed relationship. Chilly Scenes of Winter approaches a subtle idea—that of unfortunate souls whose romantic impulses are almost perfectly synchronized—and, in theory, Charles’ plight should trigger audience empathy. In reality, however, it’s dull to watch a dude mope while his voiceover accentuates the monotony of the situation: “The days go by, but Laura doesn’t call.” In fact, Charles ends up seeming insufferable because of the way he inflicts his angst on everyone in his social circle, and because of the way he can’t take no for an answer. Therefore, what should have been a character study of an incurable romantic ends up feeling like a melodrama about a stalker.

          In a strange way, the realistic textures of Heard’s performance contribute to the problem—instead of hiding behind charm, as an actor of more crowd-pleasing instincts might have done, Heard plays Charles’ naked pain truthfully. Combined with the thorny aspects of Hurt’s characterization (sample line: “If you think I’m that great, there must be something wrong with you”), Heard’s anguish makes Chilly Scenes of Winter feel like watered-down Bergman, complete with scenes of Heard speaking directly to the camera. Happily, two supporting players complement the leads with softer-edged performances: Peter Riegert’s droll comedy style enlivens the role of Charles’ best friend, and Hollywood veteran Gloria Grahame, in one of her final performances, gives a melancholy turn as Charles’ deteriorating mother.

Chilly Scenes of Winter: FUNKY