Freedom Road (1979)

          First off, the most interesting thing about this epic-length historical telefilm is the man playing the leading role. Boxing legend Muhammad Ali didn’t act often, and he usually played himself, so Freedom Road represents his only proper dramatic performance. To get the bad news out of the way, he’s not impressive, delivering lines in a listless, mush-mouthed style that makes him seem drunk or tired in most scenes. Ali completely fails to channel his signature physical grace and verbal dexterity into a vivid performance, so even though he has a few sincere moments when the context of intense scenes creates meaning, Ali demonstrates the wisdom of his choice to step away from acting for 20 years following this project. Happily, there’s good news. The novelty of seeing Ali act remains strong even as Freedom Road sprawls across four hours; the storyline about freed slaves trying to enter American political life in the post-Civil War South is interesting; and the folks surrounding Ali, both in front of and behind the camera, deliver smoothly professional work. Therefore, while there’s something inherently false about Freedom Road—which is based upon a novel rather than historical facts—worthy themes prevail.

          Ali plays Gideon Jackson, a slave who left his North Carolina plantation to fight for the Union Army. Emancipation happens while Jackson is still in service, so after the war, he returns home to his wife and children, hopeful that life after slavery will be better. It is, barely. Later, when politicians decree that black citizens should have roles in state government, Jackson gets tapped for a position. He bonds with a new friend, educated Northern black politician Francis Cardoza (Ron O’Neal), and he clashes with a new enemy, dogged racist Stephen Holms (Edward Herrmann), who sizes up Jackson as a potentially formidable enemy and eventually rallies the KKK to combat Jackson’s nascent political movement. Over the course of the eventful story, Jackson forms an unlikely friendship with a white farmer, Abner Lait (Kris Kristofferson), and navigates a fraught relationship with President Ulysses S. Grant (John McLiam) upon becoming a U.S. Senator. Informing Jackson’s journey is his achievement of literacy and his gradual shift from innate cunning to political sophistication.

          Given that Freedom Road began its life as a novel by Howard Fast, who also wrote the book that became Spartacus (1960), it’s no surprise that the story evolves into a full-blown war, with freed slaves under siege by ruthless Southerners. Yet even though Freedom Road would have infinitely more meaning if the story had really happened, the film’s progressive politics feel genuine and heartfelt, and the drama works more often than it doesn’t. Helping the story along is narration spoken by the great Ossie Davis. Still, there are many reasons why Freedom Road failed to make a big splash when it was originally broadcast. Ali disappoints, the story is fake history, and the archetypal rebel-hero structure feels convenient and familiar. Within those diminished parameters, Freedom Road has many exciting, insightful, and thought-provoking moments.

Freedom Road: FUNKY

1980 Week: Heaven’s Gate

          Writer-director Michael Cimino’s magnum opus about greed, which has ironically become shorthand for the profligate excesses of auteur filmmaking, boasts enough commendable elements for a dozen movies. The story is a thoughtful riff on a fraught period in American history, the performances are sensitive and textured, the production values are awesome, and cinematographer Vilmos Zsigmond’s images are rapturous. Had Cimino been able to wrestle this material into shape, either at the time of the film’s original release or prior to one of its many reissues, he could have made a classic Hollywood epic. Famously, however, he did not. In its most widely acclaimed version, Heaven’s Gate runs three hours and 37 minutes, which is not inherently hubristic; Lawrence of Arabia (1962) is only one minute shorter. The problem is that Heaven’s Gate features at least an hour of repetitive material that, no matter how beautifully filmed, adds nothing to the dramatic experience. Hence, now and forever, Heaven’s Gate is known as the debacle that nearly bankrupted United Artists, the disaster that ballooned from an original budget of $11 million to a final cost of $44 million, and the death knell for the freedoms that maverick directors enjoyed in the ’70s. Ouch.

          The movie begins with a pointless 20-minute prologue that introduces protagonist Jim Averil (Kris Kristofferson) during his graduation from Harvard in 1870. The excess of the prologue, which features innumerable extras in elaborate costumes, is a bad omen. Once the movie cuts 20 years ahead, to 1890 Wyoming, things get moving (more or less). Averil has become a marshal tasked with overseeing a county populated by impoverished Eastern European immigrants. In the first volleys of a land war, cattlemen led by Frank Canton (Sam Waterston) hire gunmen to kill immigrants based on trumped-up charges. Eventually, a love triangle emerges between Averil, prostitute Ella (Isabelle Huppert), and gunman Nate Champion (Christopher Walken). Amid various subplots, the narrative builds toward a showdown between the haves and the have-nots, with our Principled Antihero caught in between.

          Alas, Cimino’s writing is nowhere near as strong as his direction. When he aims for subtlety, he achieves muddiness, and when he reaches for profundity, he achieves pretentiousness. Supporting characters feel underdeveloped, relationships grind through repetitive rhythms, and everything is grossly overproduced. Some of the film’s gigantic scenes are powerful, including the final showdown, but some are laughable—notably the 10-minute roller-skating scene. Cimino’s missteps are especially disappointing because he gathered such an interesting cast and, for the most part, gave the actors viable emotions to play. Kristofferson fares the worst, since his understated screen persona exacerbates the movie’s lazy pacing, but he connects periodically. Walken fares the best, his innate eccentricity helping him forge an individualized character. Yet costars Jeff Bridges and Brad Dourif are almost completely wasted.

          Even though it’s possible there’s a great movie buried inside Heaven’s Gate, it becomes more and more difficult to see potential as the minutes tick by and the problems accumulate. Nonetheless, there’s some comfort it knowing the situation could have been worse. The first version of Heaven’s Gate that Cimino showed to understandably flabbergasted United Artists executives was five hours long.

Heaven’s Gate: FUNKY

Blume In Love (1973)

          No filmmaker captured the Me Decade more adroitly than Paul Mazursky, whose ’70s movies depict intersections between such things as hippie-era spiritualism, recreational drugs, and therapy sessions. During a streak that began with Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice in 1969 and continued through Willie & Phil in 1980, Mazursky told unconventional stories about wildly flawed people who both exploit and fall victim to cultural trends. Throughout this period, Mazursky also demonstrated special sensitivity for themes related to the Sexual Revolution. While An Unmarried Woman (1978) is the most famous of Masursky’s ’70s films because the picture tapped into the women’s-movement zeitgeist, Blume in Love tells a similar story from a different perspective—and with much more discipline.

          Both films begin with a marriage falling apart as a result of the husband’s adultery. An Unmarried Woman, obviously, examines the female point of view, tracking a character’s journey from humiliation to self-respect. Blume in Love explores what happens to a philanderer after he gets caught, adding in the seriocomic premise of a husband falling back in love with his wife the moment he loses her. Building a movie around a schmuck involves threading a very fine needle, but Mazursky is a writer-director of such supple skills that he comes as close to pulling off the trick as possible. The most interesting aspect of Blume in Love, however, is that it doesn’t ultimately matter whether viewers like the lead character; the goal of the film is simply to reveal enough aspects of the protagonist that he’s understood. As in the best of Mazursky’s movies, empathy is the order of the day.

          The picture begins in Italy, where bearded and morose Stephen Blume (George Segal) laments the recent dissipation of his marriage. In flashbacks, Mazursky tracks the arc of Stephen’s relationship with Nina (Susan Anspach), eventually taking the flashbacks up to Stephen’s departure for Italy. The whole movie, therefore, represents the thought process by which Stephen comes to grips with what he lost and learns to accept that the split was his fault. Mazursky pulls no punches in his portrayal of Stephen as a self-serving son of a bitch—the character does horrible things to Nina—so one of the questions the movie investigates is how much toxicity a relationship can survive if the foundation of the relationship is genuine love.

          In the most surprising flashbacks, an unexpected bond develops between Stephen, Nina, and Nina’s rebound boyfriend, a hippie musician named Elmo (Kris Kristofferson). Whereas Nina and Stephen represent typical upper-class L.A. neuroticism—the spouses even use the same psychotherapist—Elmo epitomizes the counterculture mindset. He’s a work-averse dropout who spends every day screwing, singing, and smoking. Kristofferson’s performance energizes the middle of the picture, because his unpredictable character takes the story in so many fresh directions.

          Segal, always a pro at playing amiable pricks, complements his expert comic timing with subtler shadings, displaying the vulnerability that bubbles underneath Stephen’s cocksure façade. The forgettable Anspach is a weak link, but in her defense, the Nina character is more of a narrative construct than a believable individual. Blume in Love is far from perfect, not only because the central character’s behavior will undoubtedly turn off many viewers but also because the movie’s a bit fleshy. (A subplot featuring Mazursky in an acting role as Stephen’s partner works well, but a larger subplot featuring Shelley Winters as one of Stephen’s clients seems extraneous.) Still, the movie’s best scenes represent Mazursky’s unique approach to social satire at its most humanistic and incisive.

Blume In Love: GROOVY

Cisco Pike (1972)

          During the early ’70s, one of the most happening scenes in the music business revolved around the Troubadour club in West Hollywood, the watering hole of choice for folks like Jackson Browne, the Eagles, and Linda Ronstadt. Perhaps no single narrative movie captures the texture of this scene better than Cisco Pike, which tells the story of a rock star who turns to dealing grass when his career goes cold. Starring singer-songwriter Kris Kristofferson in his first acting role, Cisco Pike exudes atmosphere and authenticity as the storyline winds through nightclubs, recording studios, and the streets of Los Angeles—at its best, the movie almost feels like a documentary capturing what it was like to be high on tunes (and weed) in the City of Angels during a transitional moment between the idealism of the late ’60s and the decadence of the late ’70s.

          The weird part, though, is that Cisco Pike isn’t really a story about the music business. It’s a crime thriller exploring what happens when the title character gets into a hassle with a whacked-out cop who’s playing both sides of the law. The basic story involves an LAPD psycho named Leo Holland (Gene Hackman) forcing rocker-turned-recidivist Cisco (Kristofferson) to sell a huge trove of pot that’s fallen into Holland’s hands. In shaking down his old music-industry contacts for cash, Cisco finds out which friends have integrity and thereby arrives at a new but unsettling understanding of his place in the world. Thanks to this offbeat storyline, viewers can consume Cisco Pike several different ways. For instance, it’s possible to groove on the picture as a nostalgia trip, and it’s also possible to enjoy the narrative’s mild suspense.

          What makes film so rich, besides the colorful details woven into writer-director Bill L. Norton’s script and the extensive location photography, is the lively cast. Beyond Kristofferson, who exudes such powerful natural charisma that he subsequently became a movie star, Cisco Pike benefits from Hackman giving an energetically weird performance as the dirty cop, as well as Harry Dean Stanton blending humor and pathos as the title character’s once-and-future singing partner. The picture also features ’70s stalwarts Allan Arbus, Karen Black, Roscoe Lee Browne, Antonio Fargas, Howard Hesseman, and Severn Darden. For some fans, however, the highlight is a cameo by real-life rocker Doug Sahm, who plays a campy riff on himself—rhapsodizing about the virtues of great ganja and spewing subliterate hipster jive about music, he epitomizes the far-out vibe of stoned ’70s rock.

          It’s easy to find flaws with Cisco Pike, because the movie’s energy is fairly low and because Norton’s filmmaking style is way more conventional than, say, Dennis Hopper’s mind-bending approach, which might have suited this milieu better. But considering how many interesting things Cisco Pike presents in its 95 minutes, complaining that it could have been a stronger picture seems petty.

Cisco Pike: GROOVY

A Star Is Born (1976)

          First, the good news: This Kris Kristofferson-Barbra Streisand version of the oft-remade showbiz tale about a rising star’s doomed involvement with a veteran celebrity is not as bad as its reputation would suggest. Considering the vicious criticism the picture has received over the years, one might expect an outright disaster. Instead, A Star Is Born contains some credible dramatic elements, and the production values are terrific. As for the acting, it’s quite good—after a fashion. The main problem, which infects every aspect of the picture, is that viewers are asked to believe Barbra Streisand could have become a rock star in the mid-’70s. Considering that Streisand was a show-tune belter who incidentally dabbled in pop music, her casting creates fundamental believability problems. After all, the biggest song the movie generated was “Evergreen,” a ballad so gentle it could have been recorded by the Carpenters. A further complication is Streisand’s legendary vanity—the degree to which the movie contorts itself in order to showcase her looks is absurd. For instance, the number of Streisand’s costume changes seems even more comically excessive than it might have otherwise given the presence of a unique screen credit during the closing crawl: “Miss Streisand’s Clothes From Her Closet.” Oy.

          Anyway, Streisand plays Esther Hoffman, a singer-songwriter stuck working in small clubs until she meets John Norman Howard (Kristofferson), a darkly handsome rock star. (Never mind that Kristofferson found most of his real-life musical success on the country charts.) Howard mentors Hoffman until she becomes a bigger star than he ever was, at which point Howard determines that he must disappear—in every way possible—so as not to impede his apprentice’s ascent. Woven into this melodrama, naturally, is a love story between the musicians.

          Director Frank Pierson, who by this point in his career was a top screenwriter with such movies as Cool Hand Luke (1967) and Dog Day Afternoon (1975) to his credit, made a major professional leap with this project; before directing A Star Is Born, he’d mostly helmed TV episodes and low-budget features. Considering that poor Pierson must have gotten diva demands in stereo—beyond Streisand’s micromanagement, Pierson had to deal with hairdresser-turned-producer Jon Peters, who happened to be sleeping with Streisand at the time the movie was made—the fact that A Star Is Born moves along fairly well is a testament to Pierson’s innate storytelling abilities. Yes, the flick is overwrought and sudsy, but in some sequences—particularly Kristofferson’s final moments—Pierson renders solid drama about life under the media microscope. The picture also benefits from vibrant supporting turns by performers including Gary Busey and actor/director Paul Mazursky. Does A Star Is Born need to be 140 minutes? Not hardly. But is the picture worthwhile? Yes, especially for Pierson’s close attention to emotional detail and for Kristofferson’s charismatic performance. Plus, it must be said, Babs looks (and sounds) great.

A Star Is Born: FUNKY

Convoy (1978)

          A sad spectacle representing the near-end of a once-glorious career, Convoy was not director Sam Peckinpah’s final film, but it might as well have been. (He only made one more picture, the lifeless ’80s espionage flick The Osterman Weekend.) Virtually a lampoon of every theme and visual device Peckinpah used in his previous films, Convoy is as vapid as the director’s other pictures are meaningful, so watching the movie is like seeing a faded singer struggle through greatest hits he can no longer perform with the proper energy. Exacerbating its lack of artistic worth, Convoy was the production that finally destroyed Peckinpah’s fragile reputation in Hollywood, since substance abuse often left him so debilitated that his friend James Coburn had to step in and direct several scenes. Even with the extra help, Convoy came in over-budget and over-schedule, guaranteeing no reputable producer would hire Peckinpah for years.

         Providing the final insult, Convoy became Peckinpah’s biggest box-office success.

         Yes, despite making provocative classics like The Wild Bunch (1969) and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia (1974), Peckinpah wasn’t fully embraced by American moviegoers until he helmed a trucker flick that was adapted from a novelty song. The song, of course, was C.W. McCall’s “Convoy,” the 1975 hit in which McCall narrated the tale of a rebel trucker’s adventure while cheesy music composed by future Mannheim Steamroller leader Chip Davis grooved underneath. Screenwriter B.W.L. Norton translated the song quite literally, presenting the idiotic story of badass trucker Martin “Rubber Duck” Penwald (Kris Kristofferson) forming a giant convoy of 18-wheelers to battle corrupt Sheriff “Dirty Lyle” Wallace (Ernest Borgnine).

          Yet Norton should probably be held blameless for the incoherent weirdness of the final film, since Peckinpah rewrote the script before and during production, even taking the extreme of letting his cast contribute material whether or not the material actually fit the overall storyline. Worse, Peckinpah dug into the tropes of his earlier movies, layering in endless scenes of property destruction, slow-motion violence, and sweaty men stirring up trouble. Whenever Convoy enters a sloppy montage of barroom brawling or cars crashing through buildings, the movie becomes a parody of Peckinpah’s wild-man style.

         Had the filmmaker demonstrated any discipline or restraint, Convoy could easily have become a fun B-movie about outlaws fighting the man. Certainly, the casting of the lead roles pointed the way toward something unpretentiously enjoyable. Singer-turned-actor Kristofferson, at the height of his beardy handsomeness, exudes rock-star cool, so he cuts a great figure steering an 18-wheeler while wearing aviator shades and a wife-beater. Borgnine, his gap-toothed swarthiness in full bloom, personifies redneck villainy. Yet Peckinpah puts so much crap between these characters—driving montages, explosions, pointless scenes featuring Kristofferson’s love interest, played by Ali MacGraw with her usual ineptitude—that the basic story gets bludgeoned to death. Convoy ends up feeling like a fever dream instead of a narrative, so it’s fascinating for all the wrong reasons.

Convoy: FREAKY

Semi-Tough (1977)

          Had the people making this comedy been more judicious about picking their satirical targets, Semi-Tough might have become a semi-classic, because the actors and behind-the-scenes players were all at the height of their considerable powers. Unfortunately, the movie is a muddle because of indecision about whether to focus on the seedy side of pro football or the über-’70s trend of “est” training.

          The picture starts out like gangbusters, introducing unlikely roommates Billy Clyde Puckett (Burt Reynolds), Marvin Tiller (Kris Kristofferson), and Barbara Jane Bookman (Jill Clayburgh). Billy Clyde and Marvin are the star players for a Southern football team, which is owned by Barbara Jane’s wacky daddy, Big Ed Bookman (Robert Preston). Sharing space platonically because they’ve been friends since childhood, Billy Clyde, Marvin, and Barbara Jane are funny, hip, and neurotic, serious about sports but irreverent about everything else. As the story progresses, Marvin and Barbara Jane become a couple, which causes Billy Clyde to realize he’s in love with Barbara Jane.

          The movie also introduces wild characters like an oily PR man (Richard Masur), a psychotic lineman (Brian Dennehy), and a blissed-out Russian field-goal kicker (Ron Silver). On and off the field, the football stuff is great, with debauched parties, philosophical locker-room interviews, and tense practice sessions. However, the movie gets sidetracked when Marvin falls under the spell of Friedrick Bismark (Bert Convy), the smoothie behind “B.E.A.T. therapy,” a campy spin on “est.”

          In real life, Erhard Seminars Training (‘est”) was a therapeutically dubious fad in which patrons paid exorbitant fees to sit in hotel conference rooms for marathon character-building sessions without bathroom breaks. “B.E.A.T.” takes the extremes of “est” even further; Bismark labels all his followers assholes and spews empty psychobabble (“There aren’t any answers because there aren’t any questions”). Convy, a ’70s-TV stalwart best known for hosting game shows, is actually very good in Semi-Tough, revealing the savvy slickster behind the spiritual-guru façade. Like the football material, the “B.E.A.T.” stuff is great, but it belongs in its own movie. Complicating matters even further, the romantic triangle between the protagonists never really connects, since Marvin transforms into such a B.E.A.T.-addicted space case that he’s easily outmatched by down-to-earth Billy Clyde.

          That said, Clayburgh, Kristofferson, and Reynolds are wonderful, as is Preston; the scene in which Preston and Reynolds scamper around Big Ed’s office on their hands and knees because Big Ed is experimenting with “crawling therapy” is terrific. In fact, there’s so much to like in Semi-Tough that it’s dismaying to report how widely the film’s director, the sometimes-great comedy specialist Michael Ritchie, misses his mark. Still, viewers willing to treat the picture like a sampler platter will be amply rewarded: It may not be a proper cinematic meal, but it’s certainly the equivalent to a bunch of tasty snacks.

Semi-Tough: FUNKY

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973)

          A critical favorite whose enviable reputation stems from lingering fascination with director Sam Peckinpah and the mystique that attaches to any serious movie altered by studio interference, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid has many virtues that are not immediately apparent—it’s like one of those classic novels that makes more sense after one learns about the context surrounding the novel’s creation. Thus, Pat Garrett on its own merits might seem merely a somewhat pretentious Western drama offering a bleak riff on the last days of a notorious outlaw. Seen through the prism of Peckinpah’s career, however, it becomes something more.

          The story is deceptively simple. Graying outlaw-turned-lawman Pat Garrett (James Coburn) reunites with his old comrade-in-crime, William “Billy the Kid” Bonney (Kris Kristofferson), in New Mexico. Garret advises Billy to leave the country because authorities are planning to hunt Billy. Appalled at the way corporations and politicians are constricting the frontier, Billy remains at large until he’s captured by lawmen including Bible-thumping deputy Ollinger (R.G. Armstrong). Gunning his way free of his captors, Billy starts a tragic cycle leading to a confrontation with his friend Garrett.

          Much has been made of this picture’s metaphorical heft, since the idea of a former robber betraying his lawless friend can be interpreted as a statement on the way greed changed the maverick spirit of the Old West. And, indeed, some dialogue and imagery emphasizes that exact reading, like the bit in which Peckinpah appears onscreen as a coffin maker. (See, he’s burying the Old West.) Taking the metaphor further, the picture can also be viewed as a rumination on individual-vs.-the-establishment themes that were prevalent in the national conversation at the time the film was made.

          The problem with over-praising this movie is twofold. First, Peckinpah expressed the same themes, with greater clarity and power, in earlier pictures like The Wild Bunch (1969). Second, Pat Garrett gets mired in lots of distractions, like the pointless scenes with Billy’s young sidekick, Alias (Bob Dylan), or the extended sequence of a female gunslinger (Katy Jurado) mowing down a group of opponents. This being a Peckinpah flick, there are also long vignettes of sweaty men drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and screwing whores in filthy rooms, plus a fair amount of slow-motion bloodletting.

          To be fair, the song score by costar Dylan adds a melancholy vibe (Dylan’s great song “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” was introduced here), and any assessment of Pat Garrett must take into consideration the fact that the picture has been released in several versions. For instance, a so-called “Director’s Cut” was released in 2001, nearly 20 years after Peckinpah died, so it’s anybody’s guess which version of the picture represents Peckinpah’s original intentions. Still, any film must ultimately be appraised based upon its content, and the two hours comprising the currently available “definitive” version of Pat Garrett feature flashes of brilliance in the service of a thoughtful but murky narrative.

          Like Two-Lane Blacktop (1971), another counterculture-themed picture written by Rudy Wurlitzer, Pat Garrett is a uniquely ’70s endeavor that makes for a great discussion piece, even if it somehow provokes viewers to invest the material with more meaning than is actually present. But then again, one of Peckinpah’s great gifts, both onscreen and in his private life, was stirring up trouble; therefore, perhaps the secret genius of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is that it smashes signifiers together and lets the audience sort out the chaos.

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid: GROOVY

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea (1976)

          A strange meditation on the nature of man adapted from a Yukio Mishima novel, The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea earned a certain degree of notoriety during its original release because of rumors that costars Kris Kristofferson and Sarah Miles weren’t faking when they shot their love scenes. Setting aside the fact that the scenes in question are tame by modern standards, it’s a shame this dark drama is mostly known for risqué content—for while the love story between a lonely English widow (Miles) and a world-weary American sailor (Kristofferson) is intense, another thread of the story is much more interesting. The widow’s son, Jonathan (Jonathan Kahn), is a disturbed teenager who has fallen under the influence of an even more disturbed peer, known only as “Chief” (Earl Rhodes). Chief lords over a small clique of malicious youths, because he’s a sociopath who envisions himself the only child capable of seeing dark truths about the merciless adult world.
          Writer-director Lewis John Carlino—who scripted the equally offbeat films Seconds (1966) and Resurrection (1980)—helms this picture with a sure hand, using graceful camera moves, slow dissolves, and an intimate score to create a poetic mood. He’s especially strong at filling the scenes of Chief’s clique meeting in secret places with foreboding. Richly hued cinematography by Douglas Slocombe enlivens Carlino’s stark frames, and the two use magnificent coastal locations in Devon, England, to great effect.
          Kristofferson’s restrained acting style matches the movie’s cryptic vibe, and Sarah Miles’ tendency toward weirdly indistinct facial expressions suits the piece as well, indicating that her character is lost in a world of dreams and longing. However, two adolescent performers dominate the picture. Kahn’s haunted stares are worthy of a Kubrick movie, and Rhodes works a disturbing Aryan-youth groove that makes him compelling in a stomach-turning sort of way. In sum, the narrative road this movie travels is guaranteed to polarize viewers, but for those who accept the piece as a dark parable, Sailor is a provocative experience.

The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea: GROOVY

Vigilante Force (1976)

          Way before making the ’90s cult faves Grosse Pointe Blank and Miami Blues, George Armitage wrote and directed this odd exploitation flick, which boasts an eclectic cast, an insane storyline, and weird flourishes like happy banjo music accompanying scenes of bloody mayhem. Vigilante Force is so disconnected from recognizable reality that it’s like a drive-in flick viewed through the prism of an irreverent absurdist. And, yes, that’s a compliment: Vigilante Force is disorganized, illogical, and strange, but it’s also compulsively watchable.
          The outrageous story takes place in a small California oil town called Elk Hills, which has been overrun by itinerant workers. Blissfully eschewing restraint, Armitage depicts the interlopers as hordes of brawling rednecks; these faceless savages seem to be controlled by sociopathic groupthink. In the first 10 minutes alone, criminals trash a saloon, murder cops in broad daylight, and literally shoot a car to death. Given the many whimsical touches that follow, one can only imagine that Armitage envisioned his film’s opening act as a spoof of other movies about random violence, but then again, his storytelling is so capricious throughout Vigilante Force it’s hard to parse narrative intention.
          Anyway, the leading moral force in Elk Hills is Ben Arnold (Jan-Michael Vincent), a salt-of-the-earth widower who wants to protect the small town where he lives with his young daughter. At the urging of his neighbors, Ben tracks down his wayward Vietnam-vet brother Aaron (Kris Kristofferson), and then hires Aaron to form a peacekeeping militia. Initially, the scheme works, because Aaron and his rough-and-tumble buddies crack down on street crime. However, it soon becomes apparent that Aaron is even more dangerous than the thugs he was recruited to fight. Enlisting secret operatives to shake down local business owners and gleefully using murder to intimidate opponents, Aaron quickly gets Elk Hills under his militaristic thumb. Among other things, Aaron’s rampage features some of the most blasé murders ever shown in movies; the comic-book universe Armitage creates is almost entirely devoid of visible emotional consequences, a bizarre tonal choice accentuated by across-the-board understated performances.
          While all this is going on, the movie tracks Ben’s romance with a saintly schoolteacher (Victoria Principal) and Aaron’s thorny involvement with a cynical barroom singer (Bernadette Peters). While future Dallas star Principal is mostly relegated to stand-by-her-man ornamentation, Peters gets to show off her comedy chops through sly running gags. Plus, both women are blazingly sexy, so even though Vigilante Force is chaste by exploitation-movie standards, there’s plenty of eye candy—and since Kristofferson spends about half the movie shirtless, Armitage ensures there’s something for everyone to ogle. Furthermore, the supporting cast features several familiar faces, including Charlie’s Angels sidekick David Doyle, Breakfast Club villain Paul Gleason, and, in tiny roles, WKRP in Cincinnati bombshell Loni Anderson and B-movie icon Dick Miller.
          After meandering through a confusing but entertaining second act, Vigilante Force sticks the landing with an incredibly colorful finale: Aaron’s crew masquerades as a marching band in order to rob the Elk Hills bank, and Ben forms a militia of his own comprising local geezers and youths. Thus, the climax features Kristofferson blasting away with an M-16 while dressed in a cherry-red marching-band outfit and standing atop a giant oil tank. From its surreal opening to its even more surreal denouement, Vigilante Force maintains a breakneck pace that precludes questions about the nutty narrative until it’s all over. As a result, Vigilante Force is among the most uniquely entertaining schlock movies of its era. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)


Vigilante Force: FREAKY

Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore (1974)

Given that he built his reputation on testosterone-driven drama, it’s interesting to note that two of Martin Scorsese’s most important early pictures were about women. His first feature was a grimy black-and-white indie starring Harvey Keitel, and it took him five years to get a legit directing gig, helming the female-oriented Boxcar Bertha (1972) for Roger Corman. He returned to his NYC comfort zone for Mean Streets (1973), which in a roundabout way became the audition piece that convinced Ellen Burstyn to select him as the director of Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, the actress’ first major project after earning an Oscar nomination for The Exorcist (1973). Burstyn has repeatedly told the story of how she hired the hungry young filmmaker: She asked him what he knew about women, and he said, “Nothing, but I’d like to learn.” And learn he did, because even though the resulting picture is driven by Burstyn’s powerhouse performance as a single mom making do as a waitress until her singing career takes flight, the movie is infused with Scorsese’s freewheeling camerawork and quasi-improvisational dramatic interplay. The opening bit, a smart-ass homage to The Wizard of Oz (1939), cleverly tells the viewer that this won’t be an ordinary “women’s picture,” and the tough-talking, unsentimental dramedy that follows easily fulfills that promise. The film boasts one vivid scene after another, from the funny/sharp exchanges between Alice (Burstyn) and her precocious son (Alfred Lutter) to the harrowing scenes of Alice’s volatile relationship with a younger man (Keitel). Supporting Burstyn is a terrific (and terrifically diverse) cast including Jodie Foster, Kris Kristofferson, Diane Ladd, and Vic Tayback, who debuts the “Mel” character he reprised on the hit sitcom Alice (1976-1985), which was based on this film. Burstyn won a well-deserved Oscar for her performance, and the film’s success paved the way for Taxi Driver (1976) because Scorsese had finally demonstrated the ability to direct a solid box-office performer.

Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore: RIGHT ON