1980 Week: My Bodyguard

          Note: While I'm on vacation, please enjoy a double-dose of 1980 movies with two weeks of brand-new posts about the year that brought the '70s to a close. Included in this super-sized batch of 1980 reviews are two movies recently requested by readers. Regular reviews of 1970s features will resume on Monday, July 25. Meantime, keep on keepin' on!
          Charming but slight, this crowd-pleaser about a pair of high-school misfits who yank each other from their doldrums was the promising directorial debut of actor/producer Tony Bill, best known at the time for coproducing The Sting (1973). Seen with hindsight, My Bodyguard is pocked with such imperfections as awkward tonal shifts and threadbare dramatic transitions. However, the endearing work of the two leads blends with an overall humanistic sensibility to cast the movie in a warm glow from start to finish. Therefore, even though the film's basic storyline is a clichéd underdog saga, only the most hard-hearted viewer can resist the pull of My Bodyguard.
          Set in Chicago, the picture concerns nebbish teenager Clifford Peache (Chris Makepeace), who transfers from a private academy to a tough public school. Clifford's father, Mr. Peache (Martin Mull), is the live-in manager of a posh hotel, but Mr. Peache is forever distracted by the antics of his aging mother. Gramma (Ruth Gordon) is a cheerful eccentric who spends her evenings making outrageous sexual overtures to men in the hotel bar. Upon arrival at his new school, Clifford recklessly embarrasses the school bully, Moody (Matt Dillon), thereby making a permanent enemy of the punk who shakes down nerds for lunch money. Meanwhile, Clifford becomes aware of a mysterious classmate named Ricky Linderman (Adam Baldwin), who is rumored to have missed school because he murdered someone. Once Clifford meets Ricky, he recognizes a kindred spirit—someone misunderstood for his sensitivity—even though Ricky is physically formidable because he's bigger and older than his peers. After one too many run-ins with Moody and his goons, Clifford hatches a wild idea and hires Ricky to serve as his bodyguard.
          Although there's little suspense regarding whether the main characters will overcome their differences, somehow it all works. Whenever Clifford and Ricky celebrate their newfound companionship (as in the climactic scene of a long motorcycle ride through city streets), the effect is genuinely uplifting. Similarly, the final showdown between the heroes and their enemy is as thrilling as it is simplistic. Dave Grusin's robust music keeps the movie energetic and propulsive, while judicious editing (credited to Stu Linder) keeps scenes focused and tight. Yet it’s the performances that make My Bodyguard fly. Dillon and Makepeace, both of whom had just begun their film careers, fill the screen with believable emotions, while Baldwin, in his movie debut, tears into the colorful role of a gentle giant with a traumatic past. Others in the solid cast are John Houseman, playing an enjoyably contrived cameo role, and the very young Jennifer Beals and Joan Cusack, both of whom play dorky students.

My Bodyguard: GROOVY

Flap (1970)

It’s hard to imagine how or why the venerable British director Carol Reed became involved with this tone-deaf project, which on the one hand espouses a progressive political platform regarding the mistreatment of Native Americans, but on the other hand insults the very people it’s about by casting most of the principal roles with non-Indians. Reed was a versatile talent whose filmography spans the film-noir classic The Third Man (1949) to the Oscar-winning Dickensian musical Oliver! (1968), so it’s a gross understatement to say this picture exists outside his comfort zone. Similarly, the three main actors (Anthony Quinn, Tony Bill, and Claude Akins) are wildly, even offensively, miscast. The serviceable story concerns modern-day reservation Indians living in the American southwest and protesting the endless encroachment of the U.S. government onto tribal lands. Quinn stars as Flapping Eagle (“Flap” for short), de facto leader of a group of drunken misfits that also includes Eleven Snowflake (Bill) and Lobo Jackson (Akins). After being hassled by a local sheriff, the latest in a long series of racially charged incidents, Flap gets pissed (in both the American and British senses of the word) and starts a fight with construction workers that climaxes with an industrial vehicle getting driven off a cliff. Whereas Flap’s peers are inclined to take the heat for the demolished vehicle, even straining tribal funds to pay for damages, Flap transforms the event into the first spark of a revolution. He leads his borderline-inept accomplices through a series of crimes including the theft of an entire train. Had the picture stuck to the main storyline of Flap’s political activism, it might have been tolerable, even with the ridiculous casting. Alas, the filmmakers fumble with a subplot about Flap’s romance with a blowsy prostitute (Shelley Winters); the screechiness of the Quinn-Winters scenes, some of which include goofy hallucinations, is painful to endure. Adding to the film’s dissonance is a grating score by Marvin Hamlisch, which tries to be comical and folksy but also integrates pointless electronic beeps and whoops. Worst of all, the makers of Flap strive for a Big Statement with the tragic finale, thereby adding undeserved grandiosity to the list of the picture’s unseemly attributes.

Flap: LAME

Are You in the House Alone? (1978)

Based on the title and premise, it’s easy to get this TV movie confused with the theatrical feature When a Stranger Calls (1979), which employs the same gimmick of a babysitter terrorized by creepy phone calls, but the similarities mostly end there. When a Stranger Calls is a straight-up thriller about a deranged killer, while Are You in the House Alone? is a serious-minded drama about rape that simply happens to employ horror-movie elements. That said, Are You in the House Alone? is not exceptional—in fact, the movie is quite clumsy, even though the filmmakers treat touchy subject matter with respect. Wide-eyed starlet Kathleen Beller brings sweet vulnerability to the role of Gail, a suburban high-school student who dreams of becoming a photographer. Since her parents (played by Blythe Danner and Tony Bill) squabble regularly, Gail finds solace in her friends and in babysitting—until an unknown admirer starts pestering her with suggestive calls. Meanwhile, Gail becomes involved with sensitive classmate Steve (Scott Colomby), which enflames her stalker’s rage. Eventually, the stalker emerges from hiding and rapes Gail, which transforms the latter half of the movie into an oh-the-humanity treatise on the way the law protects criminals instead of victims. Suffice to say, the various elements of Are You in the House Alone? clash. Sometimes, the picture’s a lurid saga about a girl being menaced; at other times, it’s a gentle love story about Gail and Steve opening their hearts to each other. In a peculiar way, the most memorable aspect of this picture (the social-injustice material) is the least organic—Are You In the House Alone? is a message movie wrapped inside a genre picture. In trying to do too many things, alas, the filmmakers achieve only moderate success with each of those things. Still, Beller’s naturalistic appeal—which often exceeds her acting skill—provides a sympathetic viewpoint, and the picture benefits from the talents of Bill, Danner, and costar Dennis Quaid, who made his big-screen breakout a year later in Breaking Away (1979). Although his role is smallish, Quaid’s intensity demonstrates how ready he was for bigger things.

Are You In the House Alone?: FUNKY

Boulevard Nights (1979)

          An early exploration of Latino gang life in East LA, made before images of that particular subculture became familiar to mainstream audiences, the straightforward morality tale Boulevard Nights is not particularly audacious in content or execution, but the plain-faced style helps ease viewers into a rich world. Richard Yniguez, who deservedly caught some notice for the suspenseful telefilm The Deadly Tower (1976), is strong as Raymond Avila, an auto mechanic who escaped the gang lifestyle that infests his East LA neighborhood. He earns a decent living, enjoys the respect of his peers, and entertains dreams of opening his own shop some day. He’s also involved in longtime relationship with Shady (Marta DuBois), who has gone further than Raymond in escaping the barrio; she works in an office downtown even though she still lives in the ’hood.

          The only big impediment to their relationship is Raymond’s prolonged adolescence, because he loves to spend his weekends cruising the neighborhood boulevard, showing off the hydraulics in his souped-up lowrider—the only big impediment, that is, except for Raymond’s little brother, Chuco (Danny De La Paz), who’s so deep into the gang life that tragedy seems inevitable. As the story unfolds, Raymond tries to balance the joys of building a life with Shady and the trials of keeping Chuco out of trouble, a challenge exacerbated by Chuco’s drug problems and emotional issues; the younger Avila is so wired that he lets a scuffle with a rival gang snowball into a blood feud.

          Directed by journeyman Michael Pressman, written by Desmond Nakano, and produced by Tony Bill (who later made an equally sensitive story about life on the streets, 1980’s My Bodyguard), Boulevard Nights has the by-the-numbers professionalism of a good TV movie, and except for a healthy smattering of F-bombs, there’s little here that screams “major theatrical feature.” Nonetheless, the sincerity of the effort put forth by those behind and in front of the camera carry the day, making Boulevard Nights into an anguished statement that steers clear of bleeding-heart histrionics; instead of speeches about the terrors of gang life, the story presents everyday realities about life in a minority enclave that’s almost hermetically sealed from the outside world, with codes and values defined by factors including drugs, poverty, and racism.

          What makes the picture distinctive, aside from across-the-board good performances, is the lack of a white character functioning as an observer (or, shudder “voice of reason”). With very little fuss, the picture immerses viewers in a world that feels credible, though undoubtedly jacked up for dramatic purposes, thereby earning the emotional hit at the end of the story. Boulevard Nights isn’t a great film, but as one of the first mainstream productions to explore its subject matter, it’s admirably groundbreaking. (Available at WarnerArchive.com)

Boulevard Nights: GROOVY

Satan’s School for Girls (1973) & The Initiation of Sarah (1978)

          Two of Hollywood’s favorite lowbrow fascinations intersect in these craptastic telefilms, both of which depict the troubles that befall coeds whose dorms are fronts for Satan-worshipping cults. College girls and cultists: Two great tastes that taste great together. Produced by schlockmeister Aaron Spelling, Satan’s School for Girls is the real howler of the pair, cramming all sorts of shock-cinema gimmicks and gobs of kitschy ’70s-ness into a runtime that barely reaches 80 minutes; everything about the movie is so goofy that Satan’s School for Girls is a hoot from start to finish. Unlucky student Elizabeth Sayers (Pamela Franklin) enrolls in a private school under an assumed name so she can investigate why her sister killed herself while attending the school, only to discover that sis was a victim of the headmistress and students, who, as the title suggests, shill for Satan. Two of Spelling’s most famous protégés, future Charlie’s Angels beauties Kate Jackson and Cheryl Ladd, are among the students enthralled by the Prince of Darkness, so despite shlocky production values, Satan’s School for Girls offers plenty of eye candy. The ending is also hilariously overwrought, going all the way down the bad-cinema rabbit hole.

          A few years later came The Initiation of Sarah, the story for which was co-written by future Fright Night guy Tom Holland. In this one, pretty coed Patty Goodwin (Morgan Brittany) and her “plain” adopted sister, Sarah (portrayed by the not-plain hottie Kay Lenz), get picked for different sororities, which have been locked in a bitter feud for decades. Patty joins the stuck-up babes at Alpha Nu Sigma, while Sarah ends up with the misfits at Psi Epsilon Delta. Copping plot devices from Stephen King’s then-recent novel Carrie, the story depicts Sarah’s discovery of telekinetic superpowers, then shows what happens when the beeyotches at Alpha Nu push Sarah too far. Meanwhile, PED’s housemistress, Erica Hunter (Shelley Winters), reveals her true identity as a nutjob cultist trying to use Sarah’s powers for revenge against Alpha Nu.

          Lenz’s sad-eyed sexiness and Winters’ gorgon routine are fun to watch, plus it’s enjoyable to see Airplane! guy Robert Hays in an early role. Icy sexpot Morgan Fairchild steals the show, however, with her villainous turn as the queen bee of Alpha Nu. A vision of uptight late-’70s comeliness with her feathered Farrah hairstyle and perfect alabaster skin, she’s entertainingly conniving. Both of these telefilms are unapologetically silly, but that’s exactly why they’re so watchable—and it’s probably why both got remade. The redux of Satan’s School for Girls (with Shannen Doherty!) hit the tube in 2000, and The Initiation of Sarah v.2.0 aired in 2006.

Satan’s School for Girls: FUNKY

The Initiation of Sarah: FUNKY