Kid Vengeance (1977)

          Go figure that B-movie tough guy Lee Van Cleef made not one but two cheap European Westerns costarring ’70s teen idol Leif Garrett. And while Garrett was merely a supporting player in God’s Gun (1976), he’s more or less the protagonist of Kid Vengeance—despite billing suggesting that either Van Cleef or blaxploitation badass Jim Brown plays the main character. Confusion about who’s more important to the storyline notwithstanding, Kid Vengeance is on the low end of passable, but at least that means it ‘s a hell of a lot better than the abysmal God’s Gun. Among other noteworthy differences, Kid Vengeance has a plot that makes sense. At the beginning the violent story, honest prospector Isaac (Brown) trades gold for cash, thereby catching the attention of thugs including McClain (Van Cleef), who leads a posse of savage men. After his first skirmish with would-be robbers, Isaac flees into the sun-baked wilderness and encounters the salt-of-the-earth Thurston clan, including Ma and Pa plus two kids. The kids are nubile Lisa (Glynis O’Connor) and wide-eyed Tom (Garrett). Once Isaac leaves them, the Thurstons get menaced by McClain’s gang; the thugs kill Pa, rape Ma, and kidnap Lisa for sale to slavers. Tom witnesses all of this and begins picking off the baddies with his bow and arrow. Eventually, Tom hooks up with Isaac, and the two join forces.
          The first half of the picture is sluggish, even with lots of bloodshed, partially because of lax storytelling and partially because Garrett’s an ineffectual screen presence as he lurks in high rock formations and watches bad things happen. Meanwhile, Brown is mostly kept offscreen for a good 40 minutes. On the brighter side, Van Cleef renders one of his signature phoned-in performances, but he plays evil so enjoyably that his lack of commitment doesn’t really matter. As for the other key players, O’Connor brings her customary sincerity and costar Matt Clark gives good varmint, as usual. (It’s a mystery why the producers bothered hiring John Marley, who plays McClain’s second-in-command, since his voice was replaced in dubbing to make him sound Mexican.) Kid Vengeance—which is also known by the titles Vendetta and Vengeance—isn’t the worst film of its kind, but no one will ever mistake it for a quality picture. And even though Kid Vengeance is occasionally described as a sequel to a previous Brown-Van Cleef flick, Take a Hard Ride (1975), the films are unrelated.

Kid Vengeance: FUNKY

Jeremy (1973)

          It’s not hard to see why some folks hold a special place in their hearts for the sensitive teen romance Jeremy, because even though it’s not a noteworthy film in any other regard, the picture treats adolescent angst with an unusual degree of respect. Further, writer-director Arthur Barron captures how all-important first love feels to the involved parties. Therefore, it’s a bit unfair to complain that the narrative of Jeremy is slight, even though that’s certainly the case—for the leading characters, romantic turbulence might as well be the end of the world. Robby Benson, appearing in one of his first movies, cements his screen persona as a blue-eyed heartthrob by playing Jeremy Jones, a cello student at a New York City performing arts school. Painfully shy and upset by his teacher’s pronouncement that Jeremy will never be a world-class musician, the young cellist happens upon Susan Rollins (Glynis O’Connor), a ballet student whose family recently relocated from Detroit to New York. The two fall in love, but then Susan’s father announces he’s moving the family back to the Motor City.

          Jeremy is a small film about closely observed emotions, so there’s not much in the way of plot. Instead, Barron—who never made another feature—lets moments linger so that viewers can savor moods. His observational approach is delivered via humble production values. Since Jeremy was photographed with a rudimentary shot-design aesthetic on grainy 16-milimeter film, the movie has the texture of a documentary. Happily, the leading performers thrive in this milieu. Benson’s habits of casting his eyes downward and of speaking softly invite the viewer to peer through his outer shell to find the sweetness within. O’Connor, making her screen debut, plays only slightly brassier notes, and the pair has a warm chemistry. (They later reteamed for the 1976 release Ode to Billy Joe.)

          If any major criticism could be leveled at Jeremy, it’s that Barron treats his characters too gently—there’s very little real conflict in the story. For instance, after Jeremy’s teacher (Leonardo Cimino) tells Jeremy he’s not good enough for a music career, the teacher then spends the entire following scene apologizing for being too harsh. The pervasive niceness of the movie creates a lulling sort of monotony after a while, even though many scenes are quite lovely, such as Jeremy’s performance of a difficult cello piece during a school recital. Some elements of Jeremy have aged poorly, including the film’s theme song (“The Hourglass Song”), which Benson sings on the soundtrack three different times; lest anyone forget this is a tender drama, a reminder from Benson’s achingly wispy voice is never far behind. Still, none could fault Jeremy for lacking commitment, because every frame of the movie communicates Barron’s compassionate take on teen angst.

Jeremy: GROOVY

California Dreaming (1979)

          Made in the early days of the raunchy teen-sex-comedy genre, California Dreaming is a strange picture. It’s primarily the story of a nerd who travels from Chicago to L.A., gets caught up in surfer culture, and learns, among other things, how to score with chicks. Yet the narrative also has a number of downbeat elements, such as the lead character’s quest to honor the legacy of his dead brother, and a likeable supporting character’s struggles with mortality. Plus, the top-billed actor in the cast isn’t Dennis Christopher, who plays the nerd, but Glynis O’Connor, who plays the pretty surfer girl living in the house where the nerd crashes during an eventful summer. So, in some awkward way, California Dreaming is also the story of how O’Connor’s character matures beyond beach-girl superficiality in order to recognize the nerd’s appealing qualities. California Dreaming seems like a real movie during long sequences of sensitive-ish character dramedy, and yet it seems like a sleazy exploitation flick whenever it devolves into ogling shots of undulating female body parts. The sum effect is middling.

          One big problem is the way Christopher is presented. Although the actor later demonstrated great oddball charm in Breaking Away (which was released a few months after California Dreaming), his characterization in California Dreaming is excessively awkward. With a faraway look in his eyes, a gangly build, and a weird habit of giggling at inappropriate moments, Christopher’s character comes across less like a geek who needs to get out of his shell and more like a budding serial killer. For instance, the scene during which a topless O’Connor enters a bathroom only to encounter an idiotically grinning Christopher seated on the toilet and staring at her while he’s in the middle of a bowel movement is particularly unpleasant to watch. As for O’Connor, the ’70s teen star who gave delicate performances in the TV movie The Boy in the Plastic Bubble and the theatrical feature Ode to Billy Joe (both 1976), it’s depressing to see her transformed into yet another bleach-blonde starlet whose bikini body is given more prominence than her dramatic skills.

          Still another peculiar aspect of California Dreaming is the pathos found in subplots. For instance, Seymour Cassel easily steals the movie playing Duke Slusarksi, an aging beach bum with a mysterious past; the interest of his performance stems from wondering how many of the character’s tall tales are actually true, and the surprise of his performance comes from a startling scene in which he pays an awful price for prolonged adolescence. Far less compelling is a silly running joke about a local dude who takes a bet that he can live in his car for a month. California Dreaming provides ample footage of cool surfing and hot babes, but it’s hard to figure out the intended audience—the story’s too grim for the picture to qualify as escapist fare, and the abundance of tacky elements makes it impossible to take California Dreaming seriously.

California Dreaming: FUNKY

Baby Blue Marine (1976)

          Even though Baby Blue Marine tries to accomplish too much, resulting in narrative muddiness, every quality to which the movie aspires is commendable. Set during World War II, the picture follows the exploits of Marion (Jan-Michael Vincent), a gung-ho youth who gets kicked out of the Marines during basic training for failing to meet basic proficiency requirements. (Never mind that Vincent is in extraordinary shape, or that his character is shown to possess bravery, intelligence, and leadership—not exactly the traits of a likely washout.) Making his way home from boot camp to St. Louis, while wearing the demeaning “baby blue” uniform of a reject, Marion gets assaulted by a combat veteran (Richard Gere) who steals Marion’s clothing as a ruse for escaping the military. (Again, never mind that Gere’s character could simply have bought street clothes.) Now dressed as a decorated soldier, Marion hitchhikes toward a small town in the Northwest, where he’s taken in by sweet-natured teen waitress Rose (Glynnis O’Connor) and her family. Eventually, Marion gets called into action when three young Japanese-Americans escape from an internment camp, so Marion—oh, the irony!—becomes the voice of pacifism when hotheads seek to hunt down the escapees.

          TV-trained writer Stanford Whitmore’s script is contrived but offbeat, while director John Hancock’s storytelling is blunt and mechanical, but Baby Blue Marine means well. Themes of courage, decency, and humanism are always welcome, and everyone learns a tidy little lesson at the end of the picture, Afterschool Special-style. Plus, the movie looks much better than it should, because the great cinematographer László Kovács fills Hancock’s bland frames with nuanced lighting. The acting is generally underwhelming, with Vincent going for a babe-in-the-woods dreaminess that makes him seem detached during many scenes; meanwhile, supporting players including Dana Elcar, Katherine Helmond, and Burt Remsen are hamstrung by trite dialogue. (O’Connor comes across as sweet and warm, but her work is not especially memorable.) However, Bruno Kirby makes a strong impression in the opening scenes as one of Marion’s fellow ne’er-do-well recruits, and Art Lund provides gravitas as a small-town dad mourning the battlefield death of his son.

Baby Blue Marine: FUNKY

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble (1976)

          A sentimental favorite of many ’70s kids, this made-for-TV bummer fictionalizes the real-life experiences of two young men who were born without functioning immune systems, and were thus forced to spend their lives inside containment chambers. (The storyline features a single composite character.) Much of the picture’s appeal can be attributed to the participation of leading man John Travlota, who was already a small-screen heartthrob thanks to Welcome Back, Kotter; in fact, just a year after this movie was broadcast, Travolta made the leap to big-screen stardom with Saturday Night Fever. Seeing the virile Travolta reduced to emasculating captivity amplifies the movie’s themes of frustration and isolation, and it’s a safe bet millions of young ’70s girls wept during scenes of Travolta’s character suffering anguish because of his unique condition.

          The movie begins with a middle-class couple, Johnny Lubitch (Robert Reed) and Mickey Lubitch (Diana Hyland), celebrating the birth of a son—only to be told by their kindhearted physician, Dr. Gunther (Ralph Bellamy), that young Tod can’t leave his “plastic bubble” until a cure for his ailment is found. After some maudlin scenes of the Lubitches learning to connect with their child, plus a choking incident in which the infant nearly dies, the film cuts to Tod’s adolescence, when Travolta takes over the role. Living in an elaborate enclosure that’s akin to a Habitrail, Tod longs to be with other kids, especially his pretty next-door neighbor, Gina (Glynis O’Connor). He gets his wish, sort of, when he’s supplied with an airtight spacesuit that allows Tod to attend high school. Alas, his desire to breathe free air remains unsatisfied, so the question of how long Tod can suppress life-threatening urges creates a blunt sort of dramatic tension.

          Produced by prolific hacks Aaron Spelling and Leonard Goldberg, and directed by crowd-pleaser Randal Kleiser, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble is absurdly manipulative, a low-budget weepie built around a character who demonstrates saintly personal character. Yes, Tod talks about masturbating and he’s a wiseass during homeroom, but he’s essentially a lonely soul desperate for human contact. As a result, only the anger in Travolta’s performance keeps the piece from being totally saccharine—yet once the movie reaches its fanciful ending, any pretense to dramatic credibility gives way to melodramatic excess. Beyond its iffy virtues as a narrative, however, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble is beloved for its ’70s kitsch factor, from Travolta’s meticulously blowdried hairstyle to the casting of Brady Bunch dad Reed as Tod’s papa. Trivia buffs also note the significance of this project in Travolta’s life—Bubble helmer Kleiser subsequently directed Travolta in Grease (1978), and Travolta embarked on a love affair with costar Hyland, several years his senior, until her death from cancer in 1977.

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble: FUNKY

Ode to Billy Joe (1976)

          A thoughtful drama adapted from country singer Bobby Gentry’s 1967 song of the same name, Ode to Billy Joe has a great first hour before it unravels. So even though viewers are given a plausible explanation for why the song’s tragic protagonist, Billy Joe McAllister, jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge—the mystery that made Gentry’s song a pop-culture phenomenon—muddy storytelling dilutes an otherwise poignant experience.
          Producer-director Max Baer and screenwriter Herman Raucher build their story around Bobbie Lee Hartley (Glynis O’Connor), a precocious teenager living in rural Mississippi circa 1953. Bobbie Lee is filled with curiosity about romance and sex, but her parents won’t let her date until she’s 16. Meanwhile, Bobbie Lee’s childhood friend, the slightly older Billy Joe McAllister (Robby Benson), is feeling hormonal surges of his own, so he courts Bobbie Lee relentlessly while still respecting her boundaries. The flirting scenes in particular are filled with entertainingly ornate dialogue: “I think I’m either adopted or depraved,” O’Connor remarks at one point. “Of the two, I prefer depraved.” (Even such minor characters as Bobbie Lee’s mother get atmospheric lines: “Mosquitoes always did take to you on in the thick heat,” Mom says.)
          Baer, who played Jethro on the ’60s sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies, displays a sensitive feel for the rhythms of Southern life, so his storytelling thrives during quiet scenes. Alas, it falters elsewhere. Most problematically, Baer introduces a major plot element without sufficient clarity, making the next 20 minutes of the picture frustratingly cryptic in a manner that’s out of step with what came before. (It should also be noted that the movie’s big reveal, while appropriate to the period of the story, has not aged well.) The presence of these narrative flaws is a shame, because so many things in the movie are worth watching. O’Connor is terrific, a spitfire bristling against constricting social expectations, and Benson adds dark dimensions to his patented puppy-dog persona. Joan Hotchkis and Sandy McPeak are authentic and warm as Bobby Lee’s parents, with Hotchkis radiating maternal understanding and McPeak wearing male pride with dignity. Rounding out the family, Terence Goodman is solid as Bobbie Lee’s testosterone-crazed older brother.

          Composer Michel Legrand provides a mournful score that evokes the arrangement of Gentry’s song for stylistic unity (half the song plays over the opening credits, setting up the story, and half plays at the end, tying up loose ends). On the visual front, cinematographer Michael Hugo makes the most of authentic locations like the decrepit span used for the Tallahatchie Bridge. So even with its flaws, Ode to Billy Joe is praiseworthy for its heady mixture of atmosphere, sensitivity, and tragedy.

Ode to Billy Joe: FUNKY