Marco (1973)

Another failed attempt at extending their success to the big screen, musical fantasy Marco was produced by Jules Bass and Arthur Rankin Jr., beloved for their stop-motion Christmas specials of the ’60s and ’70s. Marco offers a weird riff on the lore of 12th-century explorer Marco Polo, played here lifelessly by Desi Arnaz Jr. The picture opens in the court of Mongol king Kublai Khan (Zero Mostel), and the central premise is that Marco’s father asks Khan to punish Marco for being irresponsible. Khan mischievously tasks Marco with spending a day in the king’s court, all the while begging Marco to marry one of Khan’s many daughters. Eventually Marco and his would-be betrothed venture beyond the castle to search for whale oil in a desert. Even setting aside the bizarre and episodic plot, Marco is tough to endure. Arnaz is terrible, Mostel screams most of his dialogue, and leading lady Cie Cie Win, as the butch Princess Aigarn, is charmless. (Totally wasted is the great comic actor Jack Weston, who plays Marco’s uncle and sings a dumb song about inventing spaghetti.) The production values of castle scenes are okay, but for no discernible reason, one fantasy scene is presented in the familiar Rankin-Bass style of cutesy puppets and stop-motion animation. And then there’s the issue of the songs—the awful, grating, stupid songs. Some are sickly-sweet, some are offensive with regard to gender and race, and all are interminable. Strangest of them is Aigarn’s recurring theme, “By Damn,” repurposed every time she articulates a strong emotion. Especially when she performs the song while stripping off her clothes to protest Khan’s insistence that she dress in a more feminine manner, “By Damn” does not belong in a G-rated kiddie flick. And for those who might argue that Aigarn’s characterization as a willful warrior woman is the movie’s most interesting and progressive element, watch out for the cringe-inducing way her storyline resolves. Like everything else in Marco, it’s just wrong.

Marco: LAME

Deliver Us from Evil (1973)

          A taut little adventure saga/morality tale that takes its inspiration from the notorious real-life hijacking committed by D.B. Cooper, this excellent telefilm is something of a Northwestern riff on John Huston’s immortal drama The Treasure of the Sierra Madre (1948). Like that film, Deliver Us from Evil depicts the corrosive power of greed and uses a battle against nature as a metaphor representing the extremes to which men will go once the promise of wealth overcomes morality and reason.

          Set in the beautiful but unforgiving mountains of Wyoming, Deliver Us from Evil begins quietly, with five friends hiking through the woods, lead by professional guide Dixie (Jim Davis). The men are Al (Jack Weston), an overweight whiner; Arnold (Charles Aidman), a quiet blue-collar worker in late middle age; Steven (Bradford Dillman), a twitchy CPA; Nick (Jan-Michael Vincent), Arnold’s twentysomething son, reeling from a recent divorce; and Walter (George Kennedy), a macho blowhard who fancies himself an outdoorsman and wears a pistol on his belt. While setting up camp one afternoon, Walter spots a parachutist dropping behind a treeline not far from the group’s location. Soon afterward, the men hear a radio broadcast indicating that a D.B. Cooper-like skyjacker escaped by parachute in the same part of Wyoming where the men are camping. Walter persuades the others to join him in chasing the alleged criminal. Once they find their quarry, a trigger-happy Walter kills the parachutist.

          After a stomach-churning interlude during which the men fear that Walter killed an innocent man, they discover the hijacker’s stolen loot—$600,000 in cash. At first, the group reacts to the discovery with good citizenship, securing the money for a hike back to civilization so they can return the cash to its rightful owners. Yet it’s not long before the lust for wealth invades the hearts of even the noblest members of this crew, so, as the men make their way across cliffs, mountains, and finally a glacier, they turn on each other.

          The incisive script by Jack B. Sowards sketches each character distinctly and then generates believable conflicts through a steady process of escalation. For instance, immediately after the shooting of the hijacker, highly principled Dixie pushes the men to travel as fast as they can, since he knows it’s only a matter of time before someone hatches the idea to keep the cash. Similarly, the dynamic between kindhearted Arnold and his tormented son shifts from nurturing to tragic in a way that makes perfect sense. The script also captures a highly credible sense of the bone-deep weariness that comes from punching a clock year after a year—rather than seeming like opportunistic crooks, these characters seem like average joes who lose their minds after winning the lottery. Powered by crisp dialogue, panoramic images of wide-open scenery, and strong performances from an eclectic cast, Deliver Us from Evil unfolds like a harrowing fable.

Deliver Us from Evil: GROOVY

The Ritz (1976)

          Whether he was overseeing the exploits of the Beatles, Superman, or the Three Musketeers, director Richard Lester always demonstrated a special gift for complicated farce. That’s why he was an excellent choice to make a film of Terrence McNally’s madcap play The Ritz, about a heterosexual guy who avoids a hit man by hiding out in a New York City bathhouse. The question, of course, is whether the material merited a director of Lester’s talents. For some viewers, the answer might be yes. As a film, The Ritz is executed beautifully, with exuberant performances and vivacious staging. Many of the running gags are amusing, and certain sequences have a Marx Brothers-esque quality of fast-paced silliness.

          Plus, even though myriad stereotypes are presented, The Ritz offers one of the warmest portrayals of gay life in any mainstream ’70s movie—amid the horny predators and screaming queens are everyday people just looking for a good time. Obviously, one could question the choice of putting so many straight characters at the center of this story, since gays are largely relegated to supporting roles, but seeing as how homosexuals were still being portrayed as murderous deviants in Hollywood films at the time The Ritz was released, that’s nitpicking. Therefore, the truly relevant question is whether The Ritz works as pure entertainment. It does, but only periodically.

          After a quick prologue at a funeral, the story proper begins when portly businessman Gaetano Procio (Jack Weston) rents a room at the Ritz to avoid gunsels hired by his brother-in-law, Carmine Vespucci (Jerry Stiller). Clumsy and provincial, Gaetano manages to catch the eye of Chris (F. Murray Abraham), a would-be swinger; Claude (Paul B. Price), a fat fetishist; and Googie (Rita Moreno), a showgirl who is performing at the bathhouse. Each of these eccentric characters wants Gaetano for different reason. (Naturally, some of the reasons are based on misunderstandings.) Also thrown into the mix are a private detective, Michael (Treat Williams), and, eventually, crazy Carmine himself. To get a sense of the movie’s vibe, picture lots of running in and out of rooms, plenty of pretending, and voluminous amounts of screaming. Driving the humor is old-fashioned gay panic, because Gaetano spends most of the movie terrified he’ll be sodomized.

          Usually cast as a comic foil, Weston doesn’t bring much heat as a leading player, and he’s prone to silly mugging. Happily, the supporting cast is strong. Abraham, Price, and Williams attack their parts with gusto, while Moreno and Stiller frequently approach comic brilliance. When it’s really cooking, The Ritz employs not only the whole cast but also the whole eye-popping location of the bathhouse interior—for instance, the crazy finale involves cross-dressing, a floor show, gunplay, and a swimming pool.

The Ritz: 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

Fuzz (1972)

Although it’s confusing, dull, and unpleasant, the crime comedy Fuzz boasts ample star power, with Burt Reynolds playing the cranky leader of a group of undercover cops and Raquel Welch busting out of her sweaters as one of his colleagues; furthermore, the supporting cast features the laconic Tom Skerritt and the irascible Jack Weston playing cops, plus the stoic Yul Brynner as a villain. There’s even a big name behind the scenes, because screenwriter Evan Hunter adapted the story from one of the acclaimed “87th Precinct” novels he wrote under the pen name Ed McBain. However, even calling the narrative of Fuzz a story is exaggerating—to quote the Bard, this picture is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The main plot involves a deaf criminal (Brynner) murdering Boston city officials as a means of extorting payments from the government, but there’s also an ugly subplot about homeless people getting set on fire, and yet another subplot about a string of robberies. Additionally, the film offers a cursory nod to then-current Women’s Lib issues by having Welch’s character fend off horny suitors while trying to prove she’s as qualified to wear a badge as any man. In fact, it’s almost easier to list things that aren’t included in this overstuffed flick than to itemize its components. Worse, the excessive approach is exacerbated by whiplash-inducing tonal shifts. In certain scenes, Fuzz is horrific, as when people are burned alive, and in others, Fuzz is silly, as when Reynolds goes undercover in a nun’s habit despite sporting his signature moustache. Given screenwriter Hunter’s long history of writing police stories, either the serious version of Fuzz or the stupid version of Fuzz might have worked, but this disjointed hybrid is a dreary mess. And that’s a shame, because the leading players (with the exception of the ever-vapid Welch) present interesting personas, and the movie has fleeting moments of amusing interplay and/or dynamic action. However, these glimmers of entertainment hardly merit sitting through 92 minutes of tacky pandemonium.

Fuzz: LAME

Cuba (1979)

          It’s hard to decide if Cuba is a great idea executed poorly, or simply a case of terrific execution masking the absence of any central idea whatsoever. In either case, the Richard Lester-directed romantic/political thriller is frustrating, because despite incredible production values and a strong cast, the film is rudderless. When Cuba begins, it seems as if the main story will involve British mercenary Robert Dapes (Sean Connery) getting drawn into the drama of 1959 Cuba, just before rebel forces led by Fidel Castro staged a successful coup. Dapes was hired by the endangered Batista government to train soldiers for their battles against the rebels, and Dapes quickly realizes he’s on the wrong side of history. His situation gets even more complicated when he encounters Alexandra (Brooke Adams), a young woman with whom he once had an intense love affair, and who is now the wife of a playboy Cuban aristocrat (Chris Sarandon).

          The lovers-in-wartime premise is vaguely reminiscent of Casablanca, but unlike that classic film, Cuba can’t decide whether it’s an examination of geopolitics or simply a torrid love triangle. As a result, the movie bounces from one tonal extreme to another, creating a disjointed narrative and neutralizing any real emotional involvement on the part of the audience. Exacerbating the problem is the fact that the acting and filmmaking are so consistently good. Lester employs clever grace notes, such as tossed-off dialogue by peripheral characters and fussy background action, in order to generate a palpable sense of place and texture. He also works in his trademark sight gags, usually at the expense of pudgy character actor Jack Weston, who plays a crass American developer trying to score a big deal before Cuba implodes.

          Supporting player Hector Elizondo is terrific in a more serious role, as Dapes’ military handler; Elizondo’s knowing glances and sly asides communicate volumes of worldly cynicism. Denholm Elliot, Lonette McKee, and Chris Sarandon are equally effective in less nuanced roles. As for the leads, Adams looks spectacular throughout the picture, even if her character is written in such a confusing way that Adams is precluded from portraying consistent behavior. Connery pours on the manly-man charm, and he’s actually quite effective in his scenes with Adams, displaying more sensitivity than he usually integrates into his performances, but the story weirdly sidelines his character until the climax.

          Still, even with these catastrophic flaws, Cuba has indisputable virtues. The location photography by David Watkin is vivid, and the script by frequent Lester collaborator Charles Wood is witty. One typically tart dialogue exchange occurs between Weston and a prostitute. Weston: “Don’t you Cubans know that time is money?” Prostitute: “I do.”

Cuba: FUNKY

A New Leaf (1971)

          To say that Elaine May did not enjoy the same level of success directing movies as her onetime comedy partner, Mike Nichols, is to greatly understate the situation. Whereas he became an Oscar-winning superstar, May helmed just three pictures before focusing her energies on writing and occasional acting. The reasons why May’s directing career sputtered are well known—not only did her three features underperform commercially, but she repeatedly went over-budget and over-schedule thanks to indecisiveness and inefficiency. (Her third movie, 1987’s Ishtar, has become synonymous with behind-the-scenes chaos.) Given this context, it’s unsurprising to learn that May’s directorial debut was the subject of massive battles between the filmmaker and Paramount, which heavily recut the movie against her wishes. Yet while the resulting picture bears obvious scars from postproduction tinkering, it’s a bold and sometimes delightful concoction that undercuts the romantic-comedy genre by presenting a grim plot.
          At least as far as Paramount’s version goes, A New Leaf is a simultaneously sweet and pitch-black comedy about a would-be ladykiller whose scheme gets derailed by love. The film is visually unimaginative but filled with clever dialogue, so it comes across like filmed theater—fitting May’s background as part of an iconic comedy duo, the best scenes are two-person sketches that soar with wry patter. In addition to writing and directing the picture, May costars, quite effectively, as Henrietta Lowell, a meek heiress who lands in the crosshairs of Henry Graham (Walter Matthau), an aging heir who has depleted his fortune. Receiving advice to marry a woman with money, the hopelessly self-involved Henry resolves to find and kill an heiress, since the thought of actually sharing his life with another person is abhorrent. For a time, he believes he’s found the perfect mark in Henrietta, a shy klutz who can’t see through his duplicity, so dark humor steams from the way he cajoles her into marriage, even as her exasperated lawyer, Andy McPherson (Jack Weston), tries to protect Henrietta for less-than-noble reasons. The inevitable twist is that Graham develops the capacity to care about another human being, making it difficult to follow through on his homicidal intentions.
          Based on a Jack Ritchie story, A New Leaf presents a sturdy narrative that hums along nicely even though the humor is never riotous. The title refers to Henrietta’s interest in botany, one of several traits that make her likeable because she’s a complete innocent. May’s performance is charming and utterly devoid of vanity; it’s also a kick to watch her trade punchlines with stone-cold comedy pro Matthau, cast against type as an immaculately dressed sophisticate. Among the supporting players, Weston delivers one of his patented uptight characterizations, James Coco gives a fun turn as Graham’s repulsive uncle, Doris Roberts pops as a lascivious housekeeper, and George Rose adds heart in the role of Henry’s patient butler.

          Nonetheless, the playful quality of May’s dialogue drives this picture more than anything else. Once farcical moment finds Henry  trying to propose while resting a knee on the remnants of a household accident: “Kneeling on broken glass is my favorite pastime,” he says through gritted teeth. “It keeps me from slouching.” Sight gags rarely land as strongly as verbal ones given May’s inexperience at visual storytelling, and it’s tempting to imagine how much better A New Leaf would have played with a stronger hand calling the shots. After all, even though May tried to get her name off the picture, it’s hard not to form the impression that Paramount did her a favor by editing out extraneous material. At 102 minutes, A New Leaf endears without dazzling, so one imagines that May’s 180-minute version considerably overstayed its welcome.

A New Leaf: GROOVY