1980 Week: The American Success Company

          Writer-director William Richert displayed tremendous promise with his first fiction feature, Winter Kills (1979), a strange conspiracy thriller boasting an incredible cast and a lush look. Although the movie has as many problems as it does virtues, the style and verve of the piece seemed to bode well for Richert’s subsequent efforts. Alas, the filmmaker’s sophomore picture repeated nearly everything that was wrong with his debut while replicating virtually nothing that was right. Originally released in 1980 as The American Success Company but now primarily available in a director-approved recut version from 1983 more succinctly titled Success, the picture follows the misadventures of Harry (Jeff Bridges), a dorky young man who secures a comfortable life by marrying beautiful but cold Sarah (Belinda Bauer), the daughter of Mr. Elliott (Ned Beatty). Mr. Elliot runs the American Success Company, a doppelganger for American Express, so even though Mr. Elliot despises Harry, he ensures that Harry gets cushy executive jobs. Tired of being a doormat for his abusive father-in-law and his withholding wife, Harry assumes a new secondary identity as “Mack,” a flashy mobster who dresses in garish clothes, speaks in the Bogart/Cagney/Robinson mode, and walks with a cane. While pretending to be “Mack,” Harry purchases regular appointments with a sophisticated hooker, Corinne (Bianca Jagger), in order to improve his lovemaking. Concurrently, he contrives a scheme to embezzle money from his employer.

          As written by Richert and B-movie icon Larry Cohen, the script never explains Harry’s methods or motives in a satisfactory fashion, and the tone of the piece is awkward. Sometimes Richert goes for broad comedy and fails—the most effective running joke involves premature ejaculation—and sometimes Richert goes for high-minded satire, even though he misses that mark, as well. (In one scene, Harry, posing as “Mack,” proposes selling credit cards to an expanding market—little kids.) Beatty, Jagger, and John Glover give solid turns, benefiting from consistently written characterizations, but the leading performances by Bridges and Bauer are disastrous. Bridges clearly didn’t know whether he was playing a boob or a rake, and Bauer wobbles between incarnating a dolt and a shrew. Almost nothing works in The American Success Company, even with the wall-to-wall exposition of the 1983 version’s voiceover. Unsurprisingly, it took Richert years to score his next feature-directing gig, the middling teen-sex comedy A Night in the Life of Jimmy Reardon (1988). A decade after that, he helmed his last feature to date, an obscure 1998 version of The Man in the Iron Mask.

The American Success Company: LAME

The Execution of Private Slovik (1974)

          A grim footnote to the epic saga of World War II, the fate of Private Edward Donald “Eddie” Slovik speaks to the deepest questions about the relationship between morality and war. The only American soldier executed for desertion during World War II, and the first such U.S. casualty since the Civil War, Slovik was among thousands of soldiers who rebelled against fulfilling their military obligations while serving in Europe (as Slovik did) or the Pacific. The unique resolution of his case, however, has profound significance. If the purpose of a nation going to war is to protect its citizens, doesn’t killing one of those citizens betray the nation’s common purpose? Yet if soldiers are allowed to flee combat with impunity, how can the armed forces maintain discipline and morale, much less battlefield momentum? And even if generals and government officials seek to reconcile these questions by employing non-lethal forms of punishment for desertion, does the lack of an ultimate deterrent weaken the force of law? Once the complexities of individual personalities are thrown into the mix, the whole question of how to handle such situations becomes an ethical quagmire.

          To its great credit, the acclaimed telefim The Execution of Private Slovik does nothing to simplify these issues. Based upon William Bradford Huie’s book and adapted by writer/producers Richard Levinson and William Link together with cowriter/director Lamont Johnson, The Execution of Private Slovik is slightly more than a straightforward docudrama re-creation of historical events. Starring Martin Sheen at his most soulful, the picture opens with preparations for Slovik’s execution, then flashes back to sketch his life story and early military career before depicting the private’s final hours in meticulous detail. The picture employs a heavy narration track, with some of the voiceover stemming from Slovik’s letters and the rest of the voiceover emerging from supporting characters, each of whom offers a different perspective on the protagonist.

          Eventually, a portrait emerges of an unfortunate young man who spent his youth in and out of trouble, got his life together and settled down with an understanding young woman, and is thunderstruck by a draft notice that he’d been promised would never arrive because of his criminal record. From his earliest days of basic training to his final verbal exchanges with superior officers, Slovik self-identifies as a nervous individual who can’t deal with the stress of combat, but the Army denies his myriad requests to serve in a support function. Slovik eventually forces the Army’s hand by deserting, thereby triggering his arrest and court-martial process. Although viewers know that clouds of doom hang over the entire story, Slovik and the other onscreen characters never believe an actual execution will take place until the very moment it does. In that sense, the movie is about both Slovik and the U.S. military paying terrible costs for commitment to ideals.

          Sheen, who received an Emmy nomination for his work, hits myriad tonalities, from childlike obliviousness to deer-in-the-headlights terror, while Ned Beatty serves as the film’s de facto conscience by playing the military chaplain assigned to comfort both Slovik and the members of the firing squad tasked with killing Slovik. Both actors deliver work that suits the compassion, intelligence, and seriousness of the entire project.

The Execution of Private Slovik: GROOVY

1980 Week: Hopscotch

          So dry that it’s barely a comedy, and yet so irreverent that it’s most definitely not a drama, the winning Hopscotch offers a wry depiction of Cold War-era spycraft. In fact, the most delightful aspect of the movie is the way it treats international espionage as a big business rife with the same sort of bureaucratic inefficiency, professional jealousy, and small-minded vendettas that plague every other industry. Walter Matthau, showcasing the loveable-scamp aspect of his screen persona instead of the rumpled-grouch aspect, plays Miles Kendig, a CIA operative whom we meet on the job in Europe. An old pro who sees all the angles and casually makes deals with his KGB counterpart, Yaskov (Herbert Lom), Kendig has become a relic from the era of gentleman spies. Returning to Washington, he’s belittled and demoted by his crude but politically connected superior, Myerson (Ned Beatty). The idea of taking a desk job doesn’t work for Kendig, however, so he discreetly shreds his personnel file, slips out of CIA headquarters, and returns to Europe so he can be with his on-again/off-again girlfriend, Isobel von Schonenberg (Glenda Jackson), and plot his playful revenge against Myerson.

          Kendig starts writing a tell-all book about his life as a secret agent, sending copies of early chapters to prominent figures in the global intelligence community. As intended, the book makes Kendig a wanted man, so he commences a merry chase around the globe with the goal of humiliating Myerson as utterly as possible. Employing arcane knowledge, fake passports, and old spy-community contacts, Kendig “hops” back and forth between various locations in America and Europe, leaving clues that mock Myerson and other agents for their inability to catch up with a seasoned veteran. Meanwhile, Kendig keeps sending chapters of the book, with new secrets revealed on each page and the threat of the explosive final chapter lingering over everyone involved.

          Deftly written by Bryan Forbes and Bryan Garfield (based on a novel by Garfield), Hopscotch is the sort of lighthearted romp that’s designed to generate perpetual amusement, rather than laugh-out-loud hilarity, so viewers expecting slapstick or verbal fireworks will be disappointed. Similarly, anyone hoping for a replay of the bickering-lovers sparks that Jackson and Matthau struck in House Calls (1978) is due for a letdown, since the actors play characters who are cheerfully conjoined from the beginning of the story to the end. Yet within these diminished expectations, Hopscotch provides a thoroughly pleasurable viewing experience. Director Ronald Neame shoots locations beautifully, the story provides innumerable twists stemming from Kendig’s incredible resourcefulness, and the acting is terrific. Beatty strikes the right balance between buffoonery and competence, Jackson comes across as clever and worldly, Lom is appealingly urbane, Matthau is appropriately rascally, and costar Sam Waterston (as Kendig’s protégé/pursuer) lends a charming quality of conflicted compassion.

Hopscotch: GROOVY

Promises in the Dark (1979)

          The sole directorial effort by movie producer Jerome Hellman, whose small but impressive list of productions includes Midnight Cowboy (1969) and Coming Home (1978), this pedestrian drama explores the topic of a teenager dying from cancer and the emotional impact her disease has on family members and physicians. Setting aside that there’s absolutely no reason why this should have been a theatrical feature, seeing as how TV movies of the same vintage handled this sort of material quite well, the movie is absurdly overlong at 118 minutes, suggesting that Hellman couldn’t bear to leave unused a single frame that he had shot. Yet the problems with the movie run even deeper than issues of editing: Loring Mandel’s script is so unfocused that for most of the picture’s running time, it’s hard to tell whether the young patient or her principal doctor is the main character. The movie is redeemed by sensitive performances and thoughtful dialogue, and of course the subject matter has innate grit. Nonetheless, Promises is a Dark is a slog when it should have been a quick and steady descent into the profound terrain of existentialism.

          The movie’s nominal star is Marsha Mason, quite good as physician Alexandra Kendall. While treating high school student Elizabeth “Buffy” Koenig (Kathleen Beller) for a broken leg, Dr. Kendall determines the bone shouldn’t have broken under the given circumstances. Tests conducted with radiologist Dr. Jim Sandman (Michael Brandon) reveal cancer. This understandably rocks Buffy’s emotional world and that of her parents, strong mother Fran (Susan Clark) and weak father Bud (Ned Beatty). What ensues is an ordinary melodrama during which Dr. Kendall wrestles with how much to tell Buffy about the grim prognosis, and during which all parties experience levels of denial about the inevitable conclusion of Buffy’s sad saga.

          Doe-eyed starlet Beller gives a fairly muscular performance, though of course playing a character with a disease is every actor’s dream, and supporting actors Beatty, Brandon, Clark, and Donald Moffat make strong contributions in underwritten roles. Mason believably alternates between brittle and vulnerable. Alas, there’s only so much the performers can do in the absence of clear-headed direction. Hellman’s storytelling is so tentative that during a scene of Buffy and her boyfriend discussing the transmutation of the soul after death, the soft-rock bummer “Dust in the Wind” plays on the soundtrack. Subtle! It’s impossible to genuinely dislike a well-meaning fumble like Promises in the Dark. At the same time, however, it’s tough to get excited about a story that doesn't truly find its way until the last scene.

Promises in the Dark: FUNKY

The Great Bank Hoax (1978)

          A would-be farce that never achieves liftoff, this comedy is nonetheless a handsomely made film with a strong cast and a number of mildly amusing moments. Running a brisk 87 minutes, the picture is a trifle containing charms sufficient to engage viewers who are willing to lower their expectations.

          Set in a small American town, the movie tracks the adventures of three bank officers—Manny Benchley (Richard Basehart), Jack Stutz (Burgess Meredith), and Julius Taggart (Ned Beatty)—who discover that $100,000 has disappeared from their bank’s holdings. Jack, the wily senior member of the trio, suggests an outrageous scheme: Why not stage a robbery to cover the absence of the money, and then recover the $100,000 through insurance? Despite Julian’s troubled conscience and Manny’s weak constitution, the trio performs their fake heist, only to discover a new problem. One of their employees, meek teller Richard Smedley (Paul Sand), confesses to embezzling the original $100,000 and says he wants to return the money. Writer-director Joseph Jacoby comes close to making this convoluted setup work, although his storyline ultimately crumbles beneath the weight of confusing subplots, incessant logic problems, and underdeveloped characters. Among other things, the whole business of a romantic triangle between Richard, ambitious local beauty Cathy Bonano (Charlene Dallas), and neighborhood preacher Everett Manigma (Michael Murphy) rings false. It’s also distracting that The Great Bank Hoax is so reminiscent of Cold Turkey (1971), a better film about small-town greed that also prominently features a preacher.

          Yet The Great Bank Hoax is a good example of a picture in which the parts are greater than the sum. The scenes featuring Basehart, Beatty, and Meredith are droll, with each actor contributing a different tonality; whether they’re attempting a getaway on a bicycle or negotiating deals in a boardroom, the actors make the most of weak material. Dallas, Murphy, and Sand are good, as well, though none of their characters makes much sense. On the technical side, cinematographer Walter Lassally shoots the picture beautifully, using silky backlights to give the locations a warm, Norman Rockwell-type glow. Also making his presence felt is noted film editor Ralph Rosenblum, who cut most of Woody Allen’s ’70s movies. Based on his other work, it seems fair to credit Rosenblum with the picture’s imaginative intercut sequences and vibrant visual juxtapositions. Especially after the plot becomes too labored to follow, the presence of bright visuals and zippy pacing helps keep the focus on patter and performances.

The Great Bank Hoax: FUNKY

Lucan (1977)

          Long ago, I stopped trying to understand why certain pop-culture artifacts have remained lodged in my cranium for decades. Instead, I just embrace my indiscriminate nostalgia. For example, I must have enjoyed watching episodes of a short-lived ’70s series called Lucan, about a boy who was raised by wolves, because I’ve remembered the damn thing for the ensuing 40-ish years. Having recently tracked down and the series’ feature-length pilot episode, I’m happy to report that it’s not awful, even if the reasons why Lucan never became a hit are plainly evident. The central notion of the show was simply too gentle and small. Picking up Lucan’s story after 10 years of living in civilization, the pilot introduces him as a Kwai Chang Caine-type nomad, helping people as he tries to understand the strange ways of modern man.

          Written by series creator Michael Zagor, the pilot begins with voice-over and newsreel footage explaining that Lucan was abandoned in a Minnesota forest by his parents at an early age. Then he lived with wolves during a decade of feral existence. Discovered by hunters at age 10, Lucan was entrusted to the care of kindly Dr. Hoagland (John Randolph), who taught the boy language and socialization. Yet Lucan retained many wild ways, including a nocturnal sleep cycle. When the story catches up to the present, Lucan, now 20, has grown eager to seek out his birth parents. Therefore, when Dr. Hoagland is hospitalized following a car accident, Lucan hits the road. In his first adventure, he gets a job on a construction site overseen by builder Larry MacElwaine (Ned Beatty). Lucan befriends Larry’s misfit daughter, Mickey (Stockard Channing), while becoming enemies with Larry’s hardass crew foreman, Gene Boone (William Jordan).

          In short order, Lucan battles with a vicious guard dog, defeats several motorcycle-riding assailants, teaches Mickey to respect herself, and uncovers corruption. At various points, he manifests his quasi-canine nature by making slight transformations—his eyes turn yellow, his unibrow thickens, and he starts growling and pouncing. Not quite a werewolf, but close. Benefiting from terrific guest stars and a plaintive musical score, the Lucan pilot episode is a bit slow but otherwise quite earnest and watchable. There are even glimmers of humor, as when Lucan says, “I’m always tired if I don’t get a good day’s sleep.” Furthermore, star Kevin Brophy is perfectly cast, thanks to his athleticism, sincerity, and slightly primitive-looking features. Still, there’s not much cause for excitement here, so it should be considered a minor victory that Lucan became a weekly series and lasted 10 regular episodes before retiring to the great wolf den in the sky.

Lucan: FUNKY

Friendly Fire (1979)

          Topical made-for-TV movies have gotten a bad rap over the years, and not without justification—name a hot-button social issue from the ’70s to the present, and chances are there’s a perfunctory telefilm about the topic, if not a number of them. Given this backdrop, ripped-from-the-headlines TV movies that qualify as legitimate dramas seem even more exceptional than they might otherwise. Friendly Fire is a good example. Opting for quiet character moments over outright emotional fireworks, Friendly Fire explores the circumstances and repercussions of a controversial topic quite effectively by grounding its story in the harsh realities of human pain. Based on a book by C.D.B. Bryan that detailed the experiences of a real American family, the picture concerns two Midwestern parents who cut through government red tape while investigating how their son died in Vietnam. With the help of a reporter, the couple eventually discovers their son died, accidentally, at the hands of a fellow U.S. soldier, hence the film’s title.

          Yet the heat of Friendly Fire doesn’t just come from the revelation of a battlefield tragedy. Rather, much of the picture concerns an attempted cover-up by the U.S. government and the U.S. military, two entities desperate to keep a socially acceptable “face” on the Vietnam War. As the long movie progresses (Friendly Fire runs 147 minutes), it’s impossible not to grow more and more infuriated with the stubborn bureaucracy with which the parents are confronted. Presented in an unvarnished style, with present-day scenes of the parents revolving around flashbacks to Vietnam that gradually reveal the true facts of what happened there, Friendly Fire packs a punch for several reasons, one of which is highly surprising: The star of his very heavy picture is none other than beloved TV comedienne Carol Burnett, who was still fresh from the long run of her eponymous variety show. Dispelling any humorous associations with her gravitas-laden performance, Burnett and costar Ned Beatty create an absorbing illusion with their respective portrayals of Iowa residents Peg and Gene Mullen. Exuding heartland values and the noble grief of parents who need to imbue their son’s death with meaning, the Mullens, as played by Burnett and Beatty, represent a uniquely American sort of selfless heroism—their bittersweet victory in exposing the truth is a triumph for all parents who entrust their children to America’s military.

          Director David Greene, a versatile helmer of big- and small-screen projects whose filmography includes everything from the religious musical Godspell (1973) to most episodes of the seminal miniseries Rich Man, Poor Man (1976), approaches the film’s sensitive subject matter with restraint, allowing the poignant textures of Burnett’s performance to dominate. (Beatty is wonderful, too, though his job is playing straight man to Burnett’s bravura emotionalism.) As for the other principal actors, Sam Waterston, whose character is based on C.D.B. Bryan (the author of the source material), offers fine support as the principled journalist who makes the Mullens’ cause his own, and a young Timothy Hutton appears as the Mullens’ other son, a young man wrestling with anguish and guilt while his family’s existence becomes an endless battle against a monolithic system.

Friendly Fire: GROOVY

Wise Blood (1979)

          By the end of the ’70s, veteran director John Huston had amply demonstrated his ability to change with the times, making a series of hip oddities that stood in sharp contrast to the stuffy museum pieces created by many of his chronological peers during the ‘70s. Of these offbeat pictures, Wise Blood is perhaps the strangest, not only because the underlying material is peculiar but also because Huston presents the story as if it is high comedy—even though the narrative of Wise Blood is a grim compendium of episodes featuring characters gripped by criminal, delusional, self-destructive, and sociopathic impulses. It’s clear that the intent of the picture was to offer broad satire about certain cultural extremes prevalent in America’s Deep South, but it’s difficult to laugh when characters deeply in need of psychiatric intervention court oblivion.

          Based on Flannery O’Connor’s 1962 novel of the same name, the picture follows the exploits of Hazel Motes (Brad Dourif), a Georgia native who returns home from military service in Vietnam to find that his old life has disappeared—his family skipped town, leaving their home an empty wreck. Unexpectedly adrift, Hazel relocates to the city of Macon and builds relationships with a group of eccentrics living on the fringes of society. Hazel’s new acquaintances include Enoch (Dan Shor), an exuberant young simpleton; Asa (Harry Dean Stanton), a fire-and-brimstone street preacher; and Sabbath (Amy Wright), Asa’s twitchy daughter. Eventually, Hazel decides to start his own religion, which isn’t actually a religion, so he ends up preaching against Jesus on the same street corners where Asa sings the gospels. Meanwhile, an edgy romance between Hazel and Sabbath takes shape, and Enoch follows Hazel around like a puppy. It all gets very bizarre—one of the subplots involves stealing a shrunken corpse from a museum—and the great Ned Beatty joins the story midway through as an opportunistic guitarist/preacher/swindler.

          Although Huston films the story with his customary elegance, blending evocative production design and subtle camerawork to create a vivid sense of place, the arch nature of the characterizations makes it difficult to buy into Wise Blood’s illusions. Dourif seems like a foaming-at-the-mouth lunatic in nearly every scene, rendering audience empathy nearly impossible; his performance is unquestionably committed and intense, but it’s a drag to watch. Meanwhile, Shor and Wright incarnate ignorance with painful believably. Only Beatty and Stanton strike a palatable balance between the lightheartedness of Huston’s storytelling and the ugliness of O’Connor’s story. Wise Blood would have been a unique film no matter who sat behind the camera, so it’s doubly impressive that a veteran of Huston’s caliber tackled such challenging material. Alas, novelty alone isn’t enough to make for a rewarding viewing experience.

Wise Blood: 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

Gray Lady Down (1978)

The disaster genre was already starting to repeat itself by the late ’70s, so the only real novelty of Gray Lady Down is that it puts a military spin on the underwater tension that audiences enjoyed in The Poseidon Adventure (1972). Unfortunately, the military angle removes from the equation a key element to any successful disaster picture, which is overwrought melodrama. Specifically, since the characters in Gray Lady Down are trained to work together during crises, the only real conflict has to do with minor disagreements about strategy; thus, we’re deprived the cheesy fun of watching silly characters squabble during a catastrophe. Furthermore, the almost completely male cast ensures that Gray Lady Down is a monotonous onslaught of macho posturing. Atop all that, the movie’s simply not very good in terms of narrative execution—even with a solid cast for this sort of thing and the constant presence of life-or-death jeopardy, Gray Lady Down fails to generate memorably exciting moments. Charlton Heston, in extra-serious beardy mode, plays Captain Blanchard, skipper of the U.S. Navy submarine Neptune. One foggy night, the Neptune gets rammed by a freighter, then sinks to nearly 1,500 feet and gets lodged in an underwater canyon. Hard-driving but otherwise personality-free Captain Bennett (Stacy Keach) is sent to supervise the ensuing rescue effort, but when the Neptune sinks even further, additional manpower is required. Enter Captain Gates (David Carradine), the iconoclastic pilot of a small, experimental submersible called the Snark. Simply by dint of their watchable personalities, the scenes aboard the Snark between Carradine and Ned Beatty, who plays Carradine’s sidekick, have some life. And, of course, watching Heston tromp around the bridge of the Neptune while he barks orders through clenched teeth is campy and fun. Alas, most of Gray Lady Down is as bland as the color cited in its title, so what should have been a simple little thriller ends up being a chore to endure.

Gray Lady Down: LAME

Dying Room Only (1973)

After the success of Duel (1971), it was inevitable that prolific fantasy/sci-fi writer Richard Matheson would pen more TV movies in the same mode, although none of these subsequent projects had Duel’s strengths of an inspired concept and a superstar-in-the-making director. Still, second-rate Matheson telefilms including Dying Room Only are highly enjoyable, simply because the man knew how to twist the screws of a suspense story. In this seedy melodrama, stressed-out spouses Bob Mitchell (Dabney Coleman) and Jean Mitchell (Cloris Leachman) pull into a roadside motel while traveling through the Southwest. The Mitchells are suitably disturbed by the locals occupying the diner adjacent to the motel, including corpulent customer Tom King (Ned Beatty) and snarling short-order cook Jim Cutler (Ross Martin), so they decide not to stay. Yet while Jean uses the restroom, Bob disappears, and the locals try to persuade her that Bob bolted. Thus begins a slow-burn nightmare in which Jean must convince a small-town sheriff (Dana Elcar) that a conspiracy is afoot. Although the storyline of Dying Room Only is predicated on the usual contrivance of ostensibly intelligent people making stupid choices (when you walk into a redneck diner and everyone glares, leaving is probably your best option), Matheson brews a tangy combination of claustrophobia and paranoia. Leachman freaks out effectively, accentuating the primal emotions inherent to Matheson’s narrative; furthermore, reliable character players Beatty, Coleman, and Elcar nail their supporting roles, while Martin is surprisingly sinister as the main villain. Familiar to TV audiences for his long run as a wisecracking sidekick on The Wild, Wild West (1965-1969), veteran actor Martin digs into darkness with gusto. Like so many TV movies of the era, Dying Room Only ends abruptly since the brief running time precludes full exploration of the story, but it’s a fun ride while it lasts. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Dying Room Only: FUNKY

The Last American Hero (1973)

          Based on a nonfiction story by Tom Wolfe, which was in turn based on the career of real-life NASCAR driver Junior Johnson, The Last American Hero is a solid character piece elevated by the documentary-style realism of its racing sequences and by uniformly good acting. The screenplay, by William Roberts, is a bit on the thin side, relying on broad characterizations and a hackneyed structure, but the aforementioned strengths help smooth over shortcomings in the writing.

          Jeff Bridges stars as Junior Jackson, the movie’s fictionalized version of Johnson. He’s a willful young man living in the Deep South, working in the family business of running moonshine. Junior’s skill behind the wheel comes in handy for evading cops, but because local police know all about the Jackson’s operation, Junior’s father, Elroy (Art Lund), is in and out of jail on a regular basis. When the legal bill related to one of Elroy’s arrests exceeds what the family can afford, Junior steps up deliveries but also joins demolition-derby races organized by an unscrupulous promoter (Ned Beatty).

          Soon, Junior graduates to the big time of the NASCAR circuit, where he competes with a super-confident champion (William Smith) and courts a racetrack groupie (Valerie Perrine). The story gains dimension once Junior starts running with a big-city crowd, because his aspirations to independence and integrity wither upon exposure to pressures like the need for sponsorship. In particular, Junior gets into an ongoing hassle with Burton Colt (Ed Lauter), a hard-driving entrepreneur who sets usurious terms and expects humiliating deference. All of this interesting material serves the concept encapsulated by the Jim Croce-sung theme song, “I Got a Name,” because the thrust of the story is Junior’s search for identity.

          Bridges is great, as always, winningly essaying Junior’s transition from naïveté to worldliness, and the supporting actors fit their roles perfectly. Lund and Geraldine Fitzgerald provide earthy gravitas as Junior’s parents, while a young Gary Busey adds an impetuous counterpoint as Junior’s brother. Perrine, all blowsy exuberance, captures the damaging caprice of a woman caught in fame’s tail winds, and Smith is understated as a man who realizes his moment in the spotlight is slipping away. Lauter rounds out the principal cast with his petty villainy, providing a formidable obstacle for the hero to overcome.

          Much of the credit for this ensemble’s work must go to director Lamont Johnson, whose handling of the movie’s visuals is as strong as his guidance of the actors. Though usually an unassertive journeyman, Johnson surpasses expectations by elevating Roberts’ humdrum script into something memorably humane.

The Last American Hero: GROOVY

Footsteps (1972)

          Nominated for a Golden Globe as the best TV movie of its year, Footsteps is a hard-driving character drama set in the competitive world of college football. Yet instead of focusing on the tribulations of athletes, as is the norm for the genre, Footsteps explores the psychology of a ruthless coach whose belligerence, drinking, and shady ethics have made him a pariah among top schools. Richard Crenna, putting his customary intensity to great use, stars as Paddy O’Connor, a cocky ex-player with a good record of guiding teams toward victory, but a bad record of holding onto jobs.
          When the movie begins, he arrives in a small Southwestern town to start work as a defensive coordinator at a regional college. Since the school’s head coach, Jonas Kane (Clu Gulager), once played for O’Connor, O’Connor bristles at taking orders from a former subordinate. O’Connor also angles for Kane’s job, sleeps with Kane’s secretary to get inside information, cozies up to a deep-pocketed sponsor (Forrest Tucker) in order to have a star player moved to defense, and makes passes at Kane’s girlfriend, beautiful drama teacher Sarah Allison (Joanna Pettet). For a while, O’Connor gets away with his behavior by delivering a winning season, but things come to a head when moral crises reveal how conscience sometimes inhibits ambition.

          Although it suffers from brevity, running the standard 74 minutes for a ’70s TV movie, Footsteps is quite solid. Featuring a script co-written by future Oscar winner Alvin Sargent, the movie has several compelling confrontations. Moreover, the O’Connor character is such a force of nature that it’s fascinating to parse how much of his act is bluster and how much is justifiable confidence. Though generally not the deepest actor, Crenna slips into this role comfortably and delivers a virile performance. The supporting cast is fine as well, with Bill Overton doing strong work as O’Connor’s star player. (Ned Beatty is wasted in a tiny role.) Veteran TV director Paul Wendkos accentuates the story’s inherent tension with tight compositions placing actors in close proximity, and the filmmakers employ trippy effects like solarization and split-screens to enliven big-game montages that were obviously cobbled together from stock footage.

Footsteps: 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

Mikey and Nicky (1976)

          This hyper-realistic crime drama should hit my ’70s art-cinema sweet spot: It’s a quiet character piece about low-level hoods, grounded in energetic performances by two creative actors with a long offscreen history. It’s also a novelty as the only drama helmed by the great Elaine May, best known for her work in the realm of sophisticated light comedy. So, why doesn’t Mikey and Nicky work for me? In a word: Cassavetes. I realize it’s heresy to criticize the father of American indie cinema, but Cassavetes’ onscreen persona was grating at the best of times, and he’s downright insufferable here. It’s not just that he’s playing a pain-in-the-ass character; the problem is that Cassavetes treats every scene like an acting-class exercise, spinning into seemingly improvised riffs and repeating dialogue over and over again, presumably while awaiting the “inspiration” to say something different. Actors may find this stuff endlessly fascinating, but there’s a reason films usually capture results instead of process—nobody needs to see the sausage getting made.

          As the writer-director of this sloppy enterprise, May has to take the blame for letting her leading man run away with the movie to such an extent that Mikey and Nicky feels like one of Cassavetes’ own directorial endeavors. It’s a shame May didn’t exercise more discipline, since the premise could have led to something exciting. Small-time crook Nicky (Cassavetes) is convinced he’s on a Mafia hit list, so he reaches out to his long-suffering best friend, Mikey (Peter Falk)—and that early moment is when the story goes off the rails. It’s never clear what Nicky wants from Mikey, except perhaps companionship, since Nicky shoots down every suggestion Mikey makes for avoiding danger. Instead of running to safety, Nicky drags Mikey along for an evening of boozing and whoring, with more than a few pit stops for childish tantrums and emotional meltdowns. Nicky’s behavior is so obnoxious that it’s tempting to cheer when Mikey finally asks the obvious question: “Don’t you have any notion of anything that goes on outside your own head?”

          Appraising May’s contributions to Mikey and Nicky is almost impossible, since she seems like a passive observer capturing Cassvaetes’ tempestuous “genius” on film; stylistically, there’s nothing recognizable here from May’s other pictures. And befitting its on-the-fly nature, Mikey and Nicky is fraught with technical errors. In one scene, a boom operator is plainly visible in the mirror of a hotel room supposedly occupied only by the title characters. These amateur-hour mistakes are exacerbated by the fact that supporting actors including Ned Beatty, William Hickey, and M. Emmet Walsh are wasted in nothing roles. Mikey and Nicky gets all sorts of credit for trying to be something, and doubtless many discerning viewers will find admirable qualities. However, if there’s any great redeeming value buried in the self-indulgent muck, it was lost on me.

Mikey and Nicky: LAME

The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean (1972)

          Screenwriter John Milius crafted this outlandish narrative from the real-life exploits of Old West eccentric Judge Roy Bean, integrating a series of impossibly colorful episodes featuring an albino gunslinger, a lascivious priest, a beer-drinking bear, a legendary stage actress, and frontiersman Grizzly Adams. As directed by the venerable John Huston, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean isn’t remotely believable, but rather so enthusiastically weird that it’s fascinating to realize the movie was released by a major studio.

          Paul Newman stars as Bean, a fanciful drifter who wanders into a bar in the wilds of Texas only to get bushwhacked by unsavory locals. After being nursed back to health by a sweet senorita (Victoria Principal), he returns to the bar and slaughters everyone inside, then establishes the bar as the headquarters of his Wild West fiefdom. Bean declares himself a judge (literally draping himself in the U.S. flag at one point), and makes it a hanging offence for those under his “jurisdiction” to do things like besmirch the good name of Lily Langtry, the actress whom Bean worships from afar. He also attracts a cadre of loyal followers, including pistol-packing “marshals” who enrich themselves by stealing loot from the myriad unlucky souls Bean executes.

          The story eventually becomes a battle of wills between Bean and an ambitious lawyer (Roddy McDowall) who wants to seize the judge’s holdings, but the film mostly comprises a string of strange vignettes. Stacy Keach plays the aforementioned albino gunslinger, strutting around in pasty makeup, an Edgar Winter fright wig, and a spangled cowboy outfit worthy of the Village People. Appearing onscreen as well as directing, Huston plays Adams as a grumpy wanderer who complains the law won’t allow him to die wherever he wants. And so it goes. Huston lets actors run amok with the absurd material, and they look like they’re having a blast; Newman in particular seems thrilled to play a grizzled old coot with a silver tongue and a colossally bad attitude.

          The cast is filled with interesting people, from assorted varmint types (Ned Beatty, Bill McKinney) to those playing random small roles (Jacqueline Bisset, Anthony Zerbe). But the real star of this unique show is Milius’ outrageous dialogue, like this rant from Bean after he insults a group of fallen women: “I understand you have taken exception to my calling you whores. I'm sorry. I apologize. I ask you to note that I did not call you callous-ass strumpets, fornicatresses, or low-born gutter sluts. But I did say ‘whores.’ No escaping that. And for that slip of the tongue, I apologize.”

The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean: GROOVY

1941 (1979)

          After scoring two ginormous hits in the mid-’70s, director Steven Spielberg fumbled with his epic World War II comedy 1941, which was considered a major commercial and critical disappointment upon its initial release. The wildly ambitious (and wildly uneven) film has since gained more public favor thanks to wider exposure on television and video, and that’s all to the good—1941 isn’t a masterpiece, but it isn’t an outright disaster, either. In fact, the picture boasts some of Spielberg’s most audacious filmmaking, from expertly handled miniature effects to outrageously ornate crowd sequences, and it’s also filled with entertaining performances. The whole thing doesn’t hang together, and the film is far too long, but 1941 overflows with beautifully executed episodes.

          Written by Bob Gale and Robert Zemeckis in a madcap style that borrows from the Marx Brothers and Preston Struges, among others, 1941 tackles unique subject matter: the paranoia that gripped America’s West Coast immediately after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. In the story, civilians and soldiers alike ramp up defensive efforts like placing armed lookouts in the Ferris wheel of the Santa Monica Pier and situating gigantic anti-aircraft guns on the lawns of beachside homes.
          The all-over-the-map script is stuffed with subplots and supporting characters, and some of the threads are more interesting than others. The business of a German U-boat commander (Christopher Lee) and his Japanese counterpart (Toshiro Mifune) incompetently searching for the California coast is very silly, despite the caliber of talent involved, but when the Axis duo captures and interrogates an American redneck (Slim Pickens), enjoyable lowbrow comedy ensues. A wartime romance between a fast-talking soldier (Tim Matheson) and a sexy military secretary (Nancy Allen) is amusing and spicy, especially during an elaborate seduction scene that takes place in a plane that’s still on the tarmac.
          The goofy stuff involving two Saturday Night Live comics is okay, with Dan Aykroyd playing the leader of a buffoonish tank crew and John Belushi mugging as Capt. “Wild” Bill Kelso, a pilot zooming around the West looking for targets. Some of the best material involves a patriotic family headed up by Ward Douglas (Ned Beatty), since this stuff slyly mixes domestic shtick with wartime high jinks. For sheer absurdity, however, it’s hard to beat the scenes with Robert Stack as a dopey general who cries watching the Walt Disney movie Dumbo.

          From start to finish, 1941 is unapologetically excessive, throwing explosions or hundreds of extras at the audience when simpler visuals would have sufficed, and things like narrative momentum and nuance get bludgeoned to death by the opulent production values. Still, the cast is filled with so many gifted actors (in addition to those already mentioned, look for John Candy, Eddie Deezen, Joe Flaherty, Murray Hamilton, Warren Oates, Wendie Jo Sperber, Treat Williams, and more) that even uninspired scenes are performed with consummate skill. The movie also looks amazing: Spielberg’s camerawork is intoxicatingly self-indulgent, since it feels like entire scenes were filmed simply to justify cool visuals, and peerless cinematographer William A. Fraker gives the whole thing a glamorous look. There’s even room for an energetic score by regular Spielberg collaborator John Williams.
          1941 is a mess, but it’s also a true spectacle.

1941: FUNKY

W.W. and the Dixie Dancekings (1975)

          One of the more offbeat titles in Burt Reynolds’ long litany of Southern-fried ’70s action/comedies, this charming-ish romp stars Reynolds as W.W. Bright, an amiable outlaw stealing and swindling his way through the Deep South in the 1950s. Through convoluted circumstances, he ends up enlisting a struggling country band called the Dixie Dancekings as accomplices in a series of nonviolent stick-ups. The musicians participate willingly because W.W. turns out to be a swell manager, using his gift of gab to trick promoters into giving the band better gigs and fatter paychecks.

          Among those pursuing the outlaws is a gun-toting religious nut named Deacon (Art Carney), whose presence lends an odd flavor to the movie’s requisite car chases. Carney goes way over the top with his performance, which seems like it belongs in a different movie than the one featuring easygoing Reynolds and his rhinestone-festooned buddies, and the film suffers because leading lady Conny Von Dyke lacks charisma.

          As directed by no-nonsense craftsman John G. Avildsen, the movie zips along at a strong pace, somewhat to its detriment; the picture is so thin on character development that audiences are expected to accept outlandish contrivances at face value. So, for instance, it’s a given that lead singer Dixie (Van Dyke) will fall for rascally W.W. simply because that’s what happens in movies, and it’s a given that Deacon is perpetually unable to capture W.W. simply because, well, that’s what happens in movies. The weak characterization makes everything that happens in the movie feel inconsequential, so even though several scenes are entertaining and the movie in general is quite watchable, nothing sticks in the memory very long after the last credit rolls.

          Still, for Reynolds fans, the picture offers plenty of cinematic comfort food, from the leading man’s wisecrackery to the presence of frequent Reynolds costars Ned Beatty, Jerry Reed, and Mel Tillis. Reed in particular stands out as the hot-tempered leader of the Dancekings, because his fights with W.W. for control over the band-cum-gang have more energy than other scenes; as the actors later demonstrated in projects like the blockbuster Smokey and the Bandit series, Reed and Reynolds have a smooth rhythm together.

W.W. and the Dixie Dancekings: FUNKY