Fear on Trial (1975)

          Whereas the following year’s theatrical feature The Front (1976) memorably explores the tragic impact of the Hollywood blacklist on avowed leftists, the excellent 1975 telefilm Fear on Trial dramatizes the parallel horror of people whose lives were damaged by groundless accusations. Specifically, the movie adapts a memoir by John Henry Faulk, a broadcaster accused of being a communist in 1957. Despite the absence of evidence against Faulk, he was fired by CBS and became a pariah in the broadcasting industry, so he spent several years mired in litigation against Vincent Hartnett, the self-appointed public watchdog who “named” Faulk. With the counsel of elite attorney Louis Nizer, Faulk won a huge libel judgment against Hartnett, though Faulk was never able to reclaim his previous stature in his chosen field. According to Faulk’s book, he was targeted because of his involvement with AFTRA, a broadcasters’ union, reaffirming that busting trade guilds was a principal motivation of showbiz companies who hid behind the socially acceptable façade of an ant-communist crusade.

          Driven by David W. Rintels’ Emmy-winning script, which luxuriates in beautifully crafted dialogue, Fear on Trial benefits from excellent work on both sides of the camera. The skillful Lamont Johnson directs a sterling cast, led by William Deavne as Faulk. George C. Scott infuses the role of attorney Nizer with indignant fire, and some of the standout supporting players are Judd Hirsch, John Houseman, John McMartin, Lois Nettleton, Ben Piazza, and Dorothy Tristan. Production values are impeccable, re-creating 1950s New York in meticulous detail, and Bill Butler’s stately photography creates just the right somber mood. (Also notable is the absence of a musical score, because in this project, the words—some inspiring, some venomous—provide the melody.)

          The first half of the picture illustrates the insidious means by which an accusation could upend an individual’s life during the blacklist era. One day, Texas native Faulk is popular with coworkers and fans for his amiable personality and folksy storytelling, and the next, it’s as if he’s caught some terrible disease. The moment his name escapes Hartnett’s lips, Faulk encounters iciness from his employers, hostility from his wife, and warnings from friends who’ve already been blacklisted. Even issuing a humiliating declaration of innocence does nothing to impede Faulk’s downfall, because in the fraught Cold War climate, a Red whisper carries more weight than the truth. Faulk’s marriage breaks under the pressure of the situation, and the embattled broadcaster must accept handouts from friends to pay for legal fees and living expenses.

          The second half of the picture depicts the trial during which Nizer exposes Hartnett’s craven enterprise of selling names for profit, despite not having legitimate research with which to support his accusations. In one scene, a TV executive reveals he was told not to hire an eight-year-old child actor simply because Hartnett had smeared the child’s father.

          Fear on Trial starts out as a full-blooded drama before shifting into polemic mode during the trial scenes, so the talking-head stuff is less cinematically interesting. What keeps Fear on Trial vital from start to finish is the crispness of the writing and the impassioned nature of the acting. Devane is fantastic, charting a man’s evolution from a cheerful populist to a hardened veteran of the culture wars. Scott steals every scene he’s in thanks to his masterful way with complex dialogue, and every single player—no matter how small the role—rises to the level of the superlative material.

Fear on Trial: RIGHT ON

Best Boy (1979)

          Winner of the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature of its year, the straightforward but deeply moving Best Boy encompasses not only some of the highest aspirations of nonfiction storytelling, but also, in an unpretentious way, some of the highest aspirations of the popular arts. Telling the story of a mentally challenged man’s difficult journey from isolation to a sort of independence, it’s a profound testament to the bond between a mother and her child, with all the joy and sadness that connection implies. Filmmaker Ira Wohl made the film to record his efforts to help a cousin, 52-year-old Philly Wohl, transition from his parents’ house to a group home. At the beginning of the picture, Philly enjoys a loving but sheltered existence with his aging parents, Max and Pearl. Given his severe impairments, Philly is childlike, capable of managing little more than everyday grooming functions and a few simple chores. Yet he’s affectionate and he projects contentment, so Best Boy doesn’t play for cheap audience sympathy. Rather, the film asks viewers to enter Philly’s world while also forcing viewers to consider larger questions of what responsibility society has with regard to providing for citizens who cannot provide for themselves.

          To the extent of their abilities, since both are diminished by age and illness, Max and Pearl give Philly a comfortable home life. With Ira’s prodding—the filmmaker appears in a few scenes and provides narration throughout—the doting parents acknowledge plans must be made for Philly in the event of their deaths. This realization triggers the most heartbreaking element of the story, because Max and Pearl have to begin their separation from Philly while they’re still alive, lest he find himself completely overwhelmed trying to make a transition without their support. It’s giving nothing away to say that Max died partway through production of the documentary, since he’s in poor health from the earliest scenes, but when Max goes, the emotional aspect of the movie becomes even more powerful, because viewers can see that, all along, it was Pearl who provided the familial lifeline for her “best boy,” as she calls Philly.

          The last half-hour of the picture, give or take, is simultaneously inspiring and wrenching, because just as Philly begins to adjust to his new life in a group home—replacing familiar patterns with new ones—Pearl crumbles, partially from the loneliness of an empty home and partially from the realization that she’s no longer solely responsible for Philly’s welfare. Only the most hard-hearted viewers will be able to resist Best Boy’s power. The film starts slowly, using conversations and vignettes to establish the particulars of Philly’s circumstances, and the intimacy with which Ira presents the story gives the early scenes a home-movie quality. (In one sweet scene, Philly, who often hums the Fiddler on the Roof score, attends a performance of the play and meets star Zero Mostel backstage.)

          The longer Ira stays with the story, the more intense and relevant Best Boy becomes. After all, but for the availability of a publicly funded group home, Philly’s options might have included homelessness or institutionalization. Yet the story’s heavier implications are rarely stated outright, since Ira keeps his focus on the day-to-day reality of helping Philly find his place in the world. Accordingly, the climax—played, like the rest of Best Boy, without unnecessary dramatic adornment—is devastatingly sad and surpassingly uplifting all at once. Ira Wohl returned to the subject matter of this film for two follow-up documentaries, Best Man: ‘Best Boy’ and All of Us Twenty Years Later (1997) and Best Sister (2006).

Best Boy: RIGHT ON

That Certain Summer (1972)

          The significance of this intimate telefilm derives as much from historical context as from the events depicted onscreen, because That Certain Summer is considered the first made-for-TV movie to present homosexual characters as dignified protagonists. Seen today, the picture might strike some people as inconsequential, for while That Certain Summer tells the touching story of a man forced to tell his teenaged son about a profound lifestyle change, the picture lacks dramatic fireworks. Everyone treats everyone else with respect, more or less; no one goes for the jugular during moments of conflict; and the closest the story gets to addressing political issues are a few dialogue exchanges pertaining to the limited rights enjoyed by gay men in early-’70s America. Yet because the narrative takes place in the progressive enclave of San Francisco, That Certain Summer isn’t about the restrictions society places on people. Rather, it’s about the challenges people face when asking others to change their perceptions. Not coincidentally, that’s just what the film itself asked viewers to do by casting mainstream actors in leading roles.

          Hal Holbrook stars as Doug Salter, a contractor who divorced his wife three years ago. Eventually, we learn that he told his ex-wife, Janet (Hope Lange), about his bisexuality before they got married, and that she, like so many women of her generation, presumed she could ease Doug into a permanent heterosexual lifestyle by creating a loving and stable home. By the time their son, Nick (Scott Jacoby), reached adolescence, Doug realized that he needed to live his true identity as a gay man. In the years since the divorce, Doug built a new life with a younger lover, Gary McClain (Martin Sheen), and they moved in together. When the story begins, 14-year-old Nick arrives for an extended summer visit with his father, unaware of how deeply Doug’s life has changed. In fact, Nick—like so many children of divorce—holds onto the hope that his parents will reunite. This summer, however, Doug has resolved to integrate the two halves of his life by introducing Nick to Gary, even though Gary pretends to live elsewhere so Nick isn’t confronted by too many shocking revelations at once. Nonetheless, the sensitive youth puts the pieces together and runs away from his father’s house, riding a trolley through the city while Doug and Gary search for him. Inevitably, the story gravitates toward the moment when Doug must tell the whole truth, despite the painful changes it will bring to his relationship with Nick.

          Writers Richard Levinson and William Link, best known for their work on mystery shows (they created Columbo and co-created Murder, She Wrote), display the same humanistic subtlety here they brought to other made-for-TV movies, including The Execution of Private Slovik (1974) and My Sweet Charlie (1970). Both of those pictures were directed by versatile craftsman Lamont Johnson, as was That Certain Summer. Fine script and direction notwithstanding, this is primarily an actor’s piece. Sheen channels the suppressed tension of a man trying not to make a difficult situation worse until he briefly flashes anger during a confrontation with his brother-in-law (Joe Don Baker, great in a cameo role). Jacoby is good, too, investing the mostly one-note role of a confused kid with palpable anguish.

          Holbrook commands the film, playing gentle notes of ambivalence and pride and regret as a man who masks his identity in professional settings and desperately wants to be truthful in private settings. As seen through the eyes of his character’s son, who has yet to form prejudices but nonetheless receives demeaning signals from society, Doug is not a hero but an everyman. The sheer ordinariness of his situation is what makes That Certain Summer so meaningful.

That Certain Summer: RIGHT ON

The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (1974)

          Three years before the miniseries Roots (1977) became an unexpected ratings blockbuster and opened many Americans’ eyes to the breadth of suffering that Africans and their U.S.-born children endured during a century of American slavery, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman explored similar subject matter and earned a reputation as one of the best TV movies ever made. (Accolades showered upon the film included nine Emmy awards.) Based on a novel by Ernest J. Gaines, The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman is purely fictional, depicting a 110-year-old woman as she recalls her life from the Civil War in the 1860s to the Civil Rights era in the 1960s. Gaines’ clever structure, which involves a journalist asking Miss Jane Pittman for her memories, allows the film to present vignettes that illustrate myriad forms of abuse, oppression, and prejudice. Through each harrowing episode, themes of dignity and perseverance dominate, so the movie offers both an indictment of racist social structures and a tribute to the people who survived life within those structures.

          At the beginning of the picture, Jane (Cicely Tyson) is physically frail but mentally sharp, so she’s able to oblige a request from New York reporter Quentin Lerner (Michael Murphy) for a description of her life. Most of the film unfolds in flashbacks, with Valerie Odell playing the title character as a child in a few scenes and Tyson handling most of the performance. Some of the experiences that Jane describes are historic, as when a plantation owner grants young Jane her freedom, and some are horrific, as when racist vigilantes attack a group of ex-slaves, leaving Jane to fend for herself in unfriendly territory. Each time Jane finds joy, tragedy follows. Her happy marriage to Joe Pittman (Rod Perry) ends prematurely, and her guardianship of an orphan named Ned (played by three different actors) takes a dark turn. Jane recalls the tribulations of Reconstruction, during which northern carpetbaggers plundered the demolished American south, and she describes how working as a sharecropper following emancipation was simply another form of slavery. Yet the filmmakers never take the easy path of suggesting that Jane was some pivotal historical figure--excepting her incredible strength of character, she is an everywoman representing the African-American experience. Only at the very end of the story do the filmmakers gift Jane with “importance,” thanks to a climactic scene that encapsulates Jane’s mode of quiet defiance.

          Finding fault with The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman is not an impossible task, but only the most hard-hearted would try. The film’s politics are humane, and the story’s engagement with history is meaningful and unflinching. If no one real person actually had all of Jane’s experiences, so what? The stories of thousands who lived through the nightmare of slavery and its aftermath remain untold, so this fictional character speaks for them. Tyson does fine work, even when slathered in award-winning old-age makeup created by Dick Smith and Stan Winston. She plays every scene with emotion and sincerity, resisting many opportunities for cheap sentimentality and instead sketching a portrait infused with pride and resilience. The supporting cast is fine, the script by Tracy Keenan Wynn is efficient, and the direction by John Korty is unobtrusive, but the experience of The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman is all about watching Tyson channel decades of suffering through a prism of embattled self-respect.

The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman: RIGHT ON

Word Is Out: Stories of Some of Our Lives (1977)

          Made at a time when stereotypes about gays were prevalent in popular culture, pioneering documentary Word Is Out: Stories of Some of Our Lives offered a broader spectrum of the gay experience than many straight people had previously encountered, especially when it aired on PBS the year after its theatrical release. Made by a collective of gay filmmakers in a conventional nonfiction style, the picture interweaves excerpts from chats with 26 individuals, some of whom appear on camera with their partners, while telling a moving story about gay men and women slowly emerging from the fringe of American society to live their lives openly and proudly. Whereas many fictional ’70s films about same-sex relationships failed to grab mainstream attention for various reasons, having to do with limited distribution opportunities and the reluctance of some straight moviegoers to look beyond their heterosexual worldviews, Word Is Out takes an unthreatening approach that, impressively, does not diminish the charged political statement made by the film’s very existence. While quietly declaring that gay Americans expect the same consideration and respect as their straight counterparts, Word Is Out invites straight viewers into the conversation.

          The speakers in Word Is Out are men and women of various ages, some young and flamboyant (there’s a drag queen in here), and some older and more circumspect. They tell stories about initially denying their sexual urges because of societal pressure, about forming secret communities with other gay people while assimilating into larger and predominantly straight social systems, and about the spiritual rewards of accepting one’s true identity. In one affecting scene, a man describes going to concerts where audience members sang the comical rallying cry “God save us nelly queens” together, explaining the subtext of those words: “We have our rights, too, is what we were really saying.” Several of the speakers describe the experience of living “conventional” lives before finding themselves, so it’s painful to watch, for instance, a woman describing how she broke from her husband and children once she accepted that she was a lesbian. (Keep in mind that many of the stories described here unfolded in the late ’60s and early ’70s, a time when many still considered homosexuality a form of mental illness.)

          Among the fascinating characters in Word Is Out is Sally Gerhart, an intellectual/theologian who suggests that society transforms each new baby into “half a person” by declaring that a man is not complete until he marries a woman, or vice versa, neglecting the biological fact that we each have feminine and masculine qualities. Another unique personality is Pat Bond, who conveys tremendous humor and insight while describing her experience as a cross-dressing member of the U.S. military, but then reveals profound pain when asked if she feels lonely. Time and again, the filmmakers behind Word Is Out complicate their portraits, making it impossible for viewers to see any particular subject in only one light. And that, more than anything, is the beauty and value of this movie, introducing viewers to a group of people who are contradictory and tough and vulnerable and a million other things, one of which is gay.

          Word Is Out was an important early step toward the inclusiveness and understanding that makes America of the 2010s so hopeful, even as close-minded public figures try to drag the country back to the intolerance of the past. Incidentally, a gay-rights rally appears toward the end of Word Is Out, adding an appropriate and helpful aspect of activism to the film’s content. Those curious to see even more you-are-there footage from the gay-rights movement may wish to explore a documentary from the following year, Gay USA (1978), which focuses exclusively on activism.

Word Is Out: Stories of Some of Our Lives: RIGHT ON

A Special Day (1977)

          “I don’t think I’m anti-fascist,” the well-dressed man remarks. “If anything, fascism is anti-me.” Those simple words, revealing a world of sociopolitical significance, epitomize what makes the Italian drama A Special Day so resonant. By viewing cataclysmic historical events through the prism of one very specific relationship, the picture brings the past to vivid life while also conveying timeless truths about subjects ranging from compassion to tyranny. A Special Day is also noteworthy as one of the best collaborations between classic Italian stars Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. Whereas many of their celebrated onscreen pairings are romantic comedies, A Special Day uses their easygoing chemistry in a more imaginative way, which nets powerful results.
          Set in 1938, the movie takes place in Rome on the day Adolf Hitler made a state visit to confer with Italy’s fascistic strongman, Benito Mussolini. The action revolves around a huge apartment building with a massive inner courtyard. In the morning, bedraggled housewife Antonietta (Loren) rouses her large family. Her husband, Emanule (John Vernon), is a staunch Mussolini supporter, so he plans to take all their kids to a rally celebrating Hitler’s visit. Given her backbreaking obligations of cleaning and cooking for the big family, Antonietta stays home. Once the apartment building is nearly empty, she happens into a conversation with a neighbor from across the courtyard, Gabriele (Mastroianni). We discover things about Gabriele gradually, learning that he’s a radio announcer recently fired from his position for mysterious reasons, and that just before he encountered Antonietta, he was close to attempting suicide.

          Giving away the other revelations about his character would diminish the experience of watching A Special Day, so broad strokes must suffice—over the course of a long day comprising conversations, flirtations, and intimacies, Antonietta discovers through her new friend a world of emotion and ideas and nonconformity that rocks her existence. By the end of the day, she’s almost a completely different person than the woman who first met Gabriele. And because the things we learn about Gabriele speak directly to the dangers of living under a totalitarian regime, he changes, too, if only in the sense of emerging from shadows by sharing provocative secrets with a friend.

          Directed by the acclaimed Ettore Scola, A Special Day achieves that rare trick in movies, presenting characters who are so fully realized they seem like real people; accordingly, even the most fanciful turns in the movie’s central relationship have credibility and depth. At different times, we experience Antonietta’s fear, loneliness, pride, and warmth, just as we experience Gabriele’s dignity, humor, joy, and sadness. Loren downplays her signature glamour, hewing closer to the earth-mother aspect of her screen persona, while Mastroianni effectively tweaks his urbane image. (Modern viewers may flinch at some aspects of the characterizations, but the portrayals fit the period during which the story takes place.) Also worth noting is the picture’s unique visual style. Scola and cinematographer Pasqualina de Santis employed a desaturated color scheme, putting the look of A Special Day somewhere between black-and-white and color, and while the look is jarring at first, it makes sense after a while; this is a story that exists between the margins of history, so it warrants an offbeat presentation.

          Given the way the horrors of World War II loom just outside the narrative, there’s something fundamentally grim about A Special Day. Surely, not every character we meet is destined to survive the next few years. Yet within the darkness, A Special Day provides much that is bright and uplifting, conveying how real human connection is the only way to bridge divides. Many well-deserved accolades came the film’s way, including two Oscar nominations (for Best Foreign Film and for Mastroianni as Best Actor), as well as a Golden Globe for Best Foreign Film.

A Special Day: RIGHT ON

1980 Week: Ordinary People

          One of the most harrowing domestic dramas ever released by a major Hollywood studio, Ordinary People tells the story of a family poised to implode in the wake of a tragedy. Tracking the emotional recovery of a teenager following a suicide attempt—which, in turn, was the direct result of his older brother’s accidental death—the picture uses a scalpel to peel back the socially acceptable masks that hide hatred, pain, and shame. Even with glimmers of humor from supporting actor Judd Hirsch, who plays a psychiatrist with an earthy demeanor, Ordinary People is rough going. The movie is almost relentlessly sad. Yet the final act is quite moving, a reward for viewers who cross an emotional minefield with the film’s characters. Another incentive: Ordinary People is exquisitely made in terms of acting, storytelling, and technical execution. The movie is not perfect, partially because it takes so long for tonal variance to emerge and partially because the stately pacing results in a slightly bloated running time. In every important respect, however, Ordinary People is a model for how small-scale dramas can achieve their full potential. When the movie works, which is most of the time, it’s almost transcendent.

          At the center of the picture is the Jarrett family. The father, Calvin (Donald Sutherland), is an easygoing lawyer who can’t see how deeply his family was scarred by the death of elder son Jordan during a boating accident. The mother, Beth (Mary Tyler Moore), is a tightly wound avatar of suburban perfection who suppresses everything that’s challenging and imperfect and weak. That’s why she can’t even begin to connect with the family’s surviving son, anguished teenager Conrad (Timothy Hutton). Because he was present when his older brother died, Conrad blames himself for Jordan’s death. Unfortunately, so does Beth, for whom the sun rose and set with Jordan. The unique dramatic crux of Ordinary People is the notion that parents don’t always love their children equally—Beth resents Conrad as much as she worshipped Jordan.

          Despite its great sensitivity and meticulous craftsmanship, Ordinary People might have become the equivalent of a glorified TV movie if not for the involvement of one key player. Acting icon Robert Redford made his directorial debut with Ordinary People, and his work was so assured that he scored an Oscar for Best Director. Rather than showing off with visual trickery, Redford focused on molding performances and shaping scenes, with marvelous results. He led first-time movie actor Hutton to an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, and the way Redford exploded Moore’s girl-next-door image was masterful. Also netting an Oscar for the film was screenwriter Alvin Sargent, who beautifully adapted the story from a novel by Judith Guest by creating a tightly connected web of metaphors and signifiers. Collectively, the team behind the movie was rewarded for their efforts with the ultimate Hollywood prize: Ordinary People won the Oscar for Best Picture of 1980.

Ordinary People: RIGHT ON

The Man Who Skied Down Everest (1975)

          The Oscar-winning documentary The Man Who Skied Down Everest is a prime example of how artistry and nonfiction storytelling can gracefully coexist. Comprising extraordinary 35mm footage that was captured during a 1970 Japanese expedition and embellished with narration adapted from the journals of the real-life figure after whom the film is named, The Man Who Skied Down Everest explores themes of ambition, challenge, hubris, humility, spirituality, and tragedy. Because almost none of the people depicted onscreen speak English, the sole voice heard throughout most of the film is the narrator who recites translated excerpts from the title character’s journals. This makes The Man Who Skied Down Everest feel like the interior monologue of a bold individual undertaking something that should be impossible. (The narrator is Canadian actor Douglas Rain, best known for another audio-only role: He played HAL 9000 in the 1968 sci-fi classic 2001: A Space Odyssey.)

          At times, protagonist Yuichiro Miura comes across as a poetic iconoclast determined to chart his own path in a world that steers most people toward conformity. At other times, he seems like a spiritual wanderer questioning why misfortune often strikes the most vulnerable among us. Unquestionably, Miura had a role in guiding how he was portrayed, and producer Budge Crowley (who oversaw the transformation of the raw materials into this elegant film) set out to tell a particular story that requires a particular sort of protagonist. Nonetheless, the sum effect of the picture is quite powerful even if the content was skewed to embellish Miura’s stature as a daredevil with depth.

          The statistics featured in the narration, all of which seem borne out by the accompanying visuals, are staggering. The expedition, which embarked from Katmandu, involved 800 porters carrying 27 tons of gear. It took the group 12 days just to reach the halfway point of their journey, and then Sherpas assumed the responsibility for guiding the way and transporting gear. The last three miles of the trip—a final ascent to the top of the world’s highest mountain—took 40 days because of long rest stops required for acclimation to changes in air quality and temperature. By the final stretch, men carrying approximately 65 pounds of gear apiece traveled through an environment in which the temperature drops 100 degrees at night, and in which the air contains half the oxygen it does at sea level. As Rain says in the narration, “It is almost too much effort to live” near the top of the mountain. Adding to the hardship of the endeavor is a cave-in that kills six Sherpas, and the most contemplative passage of the film concerns Miura asking whether it’s worth continuing a athletic challenge after such a loss of life. “These mountains are beginning to steal my identity,” the narrator remarks, “They tell me how to feel.”

          The climactic ski run, during which Miura wears oxygen gear and uses a parachute to keep from achieving deadly acceleration, is presented by way of a long, unbroken shot, and it’s simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. Less a testament to the power of man and more a somber meditation on man’s struggle to find harmony with his environment, The Man Who Skied Down Everest is so much more than a sports documentary, even though the heart of the film is a remarkable physical achievement.

The Man Who Skied Down Everest: RIGHT ON

Taking Off (1971)

          Bittersweet, funny, hip, and insightful, Czechoslovakian filmmaker Milos Forman’s first English-language movie offers a sly look at the Generation Gap in which both groups under investigation—counterculture kids and Establishment parents—are portrayed with dignity. Unlike most pictures of the same type, which opt for oh-the-humanity melodrama or us-vs.-them stridency, Taking Off tells a droll story about people trying to understand the life experiences of others, even as introspective odysseys reveal unexpected complexities. On some levels, the film is quite heady, and this aspect of Taking Off is maximized by Forman’s unique cinematic approach; as he did with such monumental later films as One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1975) and Amadeus (1984), Forman blends realism and stylization as effortlessly as he fuses comedy with drama. Yet on other levels, Taking Off works as a simple fish-out-of-water comedy, especially during scenes when nebbishy leading man Buck Henry illustrates the conundrum of average suburban Americans struggling to grasp the rhythms of the sex-drugs-and-rock-‘n’-roll lifestyle.

          Henry plays Larry Tyne, a straight-laced businessman living in an affluent suburb of New York City with his wife, Lynn (Lynn Carlin). When their teenaged daughter, Jeannie (Linnea Heacock), runs away from home, Larry searches the grungier sections of Manhattan, eventually encountering fellow befuddled suburbanite Margot (Georgia Engel), the parent of another teenager who “took off.” Margot introduces Larry and Lynn to a support group for parents in their unique situation, which leads to the film’s most amusing sequence—in the unlikely context of a hotel meeting room, a helpful young stoner (Vincent Schiavelli) provides reefers and coaches dozens of middle-aged straights on how to toke without bogarting.

          While the main story of Taking Off is fairly strong, it’s clearly just a framework that Forman and his collaborators use to connect sketches and vignettes. For instance, running through the movie are clips of an audition for a musical, so periodically Forman cuts to some longhaired singer-songwriter playing a number that speaks to a counterculture-friendly theme. (Notables among the auditioners are future pop star Carly Simon and future Oscar-winning actress Kathy Bates, appearing here as “Bobo Bates” and displaying a lovely singing voice.)

          Forman cowrote the picture with a team including playwright John Guare, and the script consistently prioritizes nuance over mere plotting. Beyond simply cataloging the impossibilities of hippie-era Utopian dreams, as well as the constricting problems inherent to those stuck on the 9-to-5 rat race, Taking Off communicates the notion that everyone in the story is lost, to some degree or another. In fact, the title has a double meaning because Larry’s quest through the counterculture represents him “taking off” from his normal world, even though he finds liberation frightening.

          Taking Off might ultimately be too slight, in terms of narrative, to earn a space in the counterculture-cinema pantheon, especially since the story is told only partially from the viewpoint of the Woodstock Generation. Nonetheless, in addition to marking Forman’s impressive transition from European to American filmmaking, Taking Off captures its time with unusual maturity, sensitivity, and wit.

Taking Off: RIGHT ON

King: A Filmed Record . . . Montgomery to Memphis (1970)

          Originally exhibited as a one-night-only theatrical event, this massive documentary about the civil-rights odyssey of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. comprises chronologically ordered and expertly edited newsreel footage of key moments along King’s journey. As the title suggests, the picture begins in 1955, when King rose to national prominence by leading protests in Montgomery, Alabama, stemming from Rosa Parks’ bold defiance of a racist busing policy. King: A Filmed Record then depicts such iconic moments as King’s incarceration in Montgomery, where he wrote one of his most famous essays; his elegant responses to bombings and other violence committed by pro-segregation extremists; the March on Washington, including the historic “I Have a Dream” speech; King’s receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize; the marches through Selma, Alabama, that forced the intervention of the U.S. government on behalf of civil-rights activists; and, finally, King’s funeral after his assassination in Memphis in 1968.

          Eschewing narration, the film mostly lets archival footage stand on its own, although the project’s producer, Ely Landau, enlisted a number of noteworthy Hollywood liberals to appear on camera and read encomiums about King and/or pointed literary excerpts related to the never-ending struggle for equality and freedom. Stars participating in the project include Harry Belafonte, Ruby Dee, Ben Gazzara, Charlton Heston, James Earl Jones, Burt Lancaster, Paul Newman, Anthony Quinn, Clarence Williams III, and Joanne Woodward. (Most are onscreen for a minute or less.) Adding to the project’s Hollywood pedigree is the quiet participation of directors Sidney Lumet and Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who presumably filmed the celebrity testimonials. King: A Filmed Record is a long movie, running three hours and featuring an intermission after the “I Have a Dream” speech, but the length works in the project’s favor. Beyond the historical value in compiling so many of King’s important achievements, the piece celebrates the incredible power of King’s oratory while never losing sight of context. The film’s editors often juxtapose shots of press conferences and speeches with harrowing footage of human-rights violations, as well as images that show pain tracking across the faces of everyday African-Americans who bear silent witness to pointless degradation.

          Hovering over the whole experience of King: A Filmed Record is the heartbreaking knowledge of how King’s life ended. Every scene of the great man calling for dignity is tinged with the awareness of looming danger. Yet as King himself said in a prophetic speech that was played during his funeral, the survival of the dream was more important than the survival of the man. A tribute to both, King: A Filmed Record remains just as necessary and relevant as ever. Nominated for an Oscar as Best Documentary Feature, King: A Filmed Record was entered into the Library of Congress’ National Film Registry in 1999.

King: A Filmed Record . . . Montgomery to Memphis: RIGHT ON

1980 Week: Breaker Morant

          Beautifully filmed, expertly acted, meticulously directed, and thoughtfully written, Breaker Morant is not only one of the best Australian films ever made, but also one of the finest dramas of its era. Presenting a complex story about courage, cowardice, politics, violence, and war, the picture dramatizes an infamous real-life incident that took place during the early 20th century in what later became South Africa. Amid the storms of the Second Boer War, fought between forces of the British Empire and those resisting British rule, three officers in an Australian regiment serving the UK were accused of killing unarmed combatants, including a German priest, as reprisal for the murder of their commanding officer. Partisans of the accused characterized the legal action that was brought against the Australians as craven political expediency, a maneuver designed by the British to appease German interests and facilitate a peace settlement. Despite strong evidence proving that the Australians were following orders, the officers were executed, and many people perceived the event as a classic miscarriage of justice.

          Cowritten and directed by Bruce Beresford, using Kenneth J. Ross’ play Breaker Morant as a foundation, this elegantly constructed film follows the trial of the Australians and includes flashbacks to key events on the battlefield. A picture emerges of a conflict in which the rules of engagement were murky at best. The leader of the Australians is the sophisticated Harry “Breaker” Morant (Edward Woodward), a horseman and poet who was born in England and therefore understands the duplicities of the British aristocracy better than his Australian-born comrades. In fact, Morant realizes his fate is sealed the minute he meets the attorney assigned to represent the Australians, an inexperienced Aussie named Major J.F. Thomas (Jack Thompson). The lawyer is given only a day to prepare, and all of his motions to buy time are overruled. Yet as the absurdly one-sided military trial commences, Thomas proves more formidable than either the defendants or the jurists expected, sparking hope among the Australians that truth may out. In sad and tragic ways, it does—with little effect on the foregone conclusion.

           Through evidence and testimony, Thomas demonstrates that a no-prisoners policy was in place before the death of the Australians’ commanding officer, thereby demolishing the prosecution’s argument that Morant and the others acted savagely. “The tragedy of war,” Thomas opines, “is that these horrors are committed by normal men, in abnormal circumstances.”

          Beresford shows exquisite restraint in every aspect of filmmaking. The performances are almost perfectly modulated, with anger breaking through decorum at just the right moments, and the camera angles and lighting that Beresford contrives with cinematographer Donald McAlpine heighten tension while also infusing scenes with the immersive texture of remote locales. Woodward is extraordinary in the title role, blending cynicism and romanticism to incarnate a unique individual. Bryan Brown, in his breakout performance, lends roguish charm while playing one of Morant’s co-defendants. And Australian-cinema stalwart Thompson does some of the best work of his career. Best of all, the movie can be watched in close detail by viewers curious about the internecine historical details, and it can also be absorbed viscerally as the story of ordinary men thrown into battle against forces beyond their ken.

          Either way, it’s a masterpiece of dramatic storytelling.

Breaker Morant: RIGHT ON

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (1974)

          “Why is everything so hard for me?” That simple question epitomizes the poignant impact of The Enigma of Kasper Hauser, a drama from German writer-director Werner Herzog that’s also known as Every Man for Himself and God Against All. Based on the true story of a mysterious youth who appeared in a Bavarian village during the 19th century claiming to have spent his entire life locked in a basement—hence his inability to speak or even to perform basic life skills—the picture unfolds like a sad fairy tale. Shot in a minimalistic style but energized with artful compositions and lighting, the movie opens in a grim dungeon, where Kaspar (Bruno S.) is chained to the floor. Capable only of eating and playing with simple toys, Kaspar is perplexed when his guardian frees him, carries him outside for quick lessons in how to walk and how to speak an introductory sentence, and then delivers him to a small village.

          The residents of the village discover Kaspar soon afterward, standing in a courtyard with a bewildered expression on his face and a bizarre handwritten letter from his guardian held in his hand. According to the letter, Kaspar was given to the guardian when Ksapar was an infant, but the guardian was too poor and too preoccupied with his own children to raise the boy properly. The villagers accept Kaspar as a ward of the state, teaching him hygiene and manners. The most melancholy and provocative scenes in the film depict Kaspar’s reactions when people try to explain religion. Beyond his inability to grasp abstract concepts, Kaspar cannot fathom the notion of almighty being who could tolerate the kind of loneliness and suffering that characterizes Kaspar’s life. Equally maddening is a scene of a university professor “testing” Kaspar’s ability to exercise logic: Kaspar proves clever and thoughtful, but because he cannot articulate his notions via the accepted vernacular of the intelligentsia, he’s deemed an idiot by default. As Kaspar says in a moment of existential despair, “I am so far away from everything.”

          Throughout his career, Herzog has displayed a special ability for discovering obscure true-life stories that are suitable for conveying his singular worldview. Like the grim fictional feature Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972) and the harrowing documentary Grizzly Man (2005), among many others, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser is filled with questions about the meaning of life. In Herzog’s best films, existence is portrayed a grind of hardship and suffering redeemed only by fleeting moments of compassion and transcendence. That’s why Herzog’s casting of Bruno S. in the lead role works so well, even though on many levels the casting is bonkers. In addition to being a nonactor, Bruno S. was in his 40s when he made Kaspar Hauser; the real Kaspar was a teenager when he first appeared. A former mental patient who worked as a laborer and a street musician, Bruno S. seems just as detached from the normal world as the real Kaspar must have been.

          Since Herzog maintains a tight focus on the principal storyline, instead of venturing off into the tangents that dilute many of his films, The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser is one of the director’s strongest efforts. Like David Lynch’s The Elephant Man (1980), The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser is a profound examination of society’s unwillingness to embrace those who are truly different. As seen through the unusual prism of Herzog’s directorial perspective, Kaspar comes across as a being so closely connected to the basic rhythms of the universe that his otherness is a living condemnation of the walls society builds to protect itself from natural forces.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser: RIGHT ON

The Hireling (1973)

          Telling the sad story of two souls who misunderstand the connection that they find with each other, British drama The Hireling energizes familiar class-system dynamics with a tight focus on characterization. Moreover, the near-perfect casting of the leading roles allows Sarah Miles to epitomize the plight of a fragile individual forced by birth to perpetuate the noblesse oblige of the upper class, while Robert Shaw, at his most animalistic, portrays a lower-class striver who temporarily forgets his station, causing ugly consequences. There’s a love story of sorts hidden inside The Hireling, though the filmmakers wisely present the quasi-romance as a tragedy illustrating what happens when people accept social boundaries as insurmountable and permanent. Intimate, loaded with well-chosen visual metaphors, and relentless, The Hireling achieves that rare thing in the dramatic arts—pure storytelling clarity—even though the lack of fully developed supporting characters renders the movie imperfect.

          Set in the early 20th century and directed with admirable economy by Alan Bridges from a sensitive script by Wolf Mankowitz, the picture begins with the release of noblewoman Lady Franklin (Miles) from a sanitarium. We soon learn she had a nervous breakdown following the death of her husband. Hired to drive Lady Franklin home is Steven Ledbetter (Shaw), a rough-hewn commoner who puts on airs of crisp manners in order to grow his small chauffeuring business. In reality, Steven bitterly resents England’s class system, perhaps because he wasn’t able to rise above the rank of Sergeant Major while serving in the military during World War I. Steven addresses those with higher stations as “milady” and “sir,” but his anger at the limitations placed upon him by society is evident to anyone who looks closely enough—which, of course, members of the nobility never bother to do.

          Over the course of Lady Franklin’s reentry into normal life, she often hires Steven for driving and for companionship. He listens politely while she talks about her grief, and he accompanies her on outings and picnics. The reason Lady Franklin believes the time she spends with Steven to be appropriate is that he fabricates a story about being happily married with children. Secretly, however, Steven becomes infatuated with Lady Franklin and deludes himself into thinking she returns his affection. Reality shatters Steven’s world when an ambitious gentleman named Hugh Cantrip (Peter Egan) sets his sights on Lady Franklin’s fortune. A smug prick who served as an officer during the war (adroitly representing his “superiority” over Steven), Hugh seduces Lady Franklin even as he keeps a lover on the side. In his capacity as a driver-for-hire, Steven sees everything, leading to a wrenching confrontation.

          Although it’s easy to envision an Americanized remake of The Hireling with blood pumping closer to the surface—Miles’ performance is icy and Shaw’s portrayal eventually becomes quite brutish—the cruel machinations of the British class system are essential to the movie’s efficacy, because The Hireling is all about topics characters refuse to address because doing so wouldn’t be “proper.” As captured by Michael Reed’s beautifully moody photography, the characters in The Hireling are trapped because of the gaps between their personal identities and their social identities. As they say in the UK, mind the gap.

The Hireling: RIGHT ON

The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979)

          Plaintive, tragic, and wise, The Marriage of Maria Braun is a titanic achievement in the extensive filmmography of provocative German auteur Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Setting a peculiar love story against the backdrop of World War II’s final years, the picture says profound things about the damnable cost of pride, the degradation of national identity during times of war, the interpersonal issues that arise whenever women become breadwinners in patriarchal societies, and the mysteries of the female soul. Yet for all the philosophical and sociopolitical weight of the subject matter, The Marriage of Maria Braun unfolds with something that could almost be described as lightness of touch. The leading character is so self-assured and the storytelling is so witty that hints of playful satire sparkle amid the drama.

          Things get off to an amazing start with the frenetic opening scene—beautiful young Maria (Hanna Schygulla) marries German soldier Hermann (Klaus Löwitsch) while the city around them is shelled with enemy bombs. Soon after this perfect metaphor, Hermann and Maria are separated for the duration of the war, forcing Maria to fend for herself without any sure knowledge of whether her husband will return home or even whether he’s alive. Resourceful, smart, and tough, Maria sees everyone else around her fighting for scraps, so she decides to try for something better. Maria takes a job as a dancehall girl. While working at the dancehall, Maria bewitches a stocky black GI named Bill (George Boyd), who supplies her with imported goods, impregnates her, and offers to marry her. Then, fate being what it is, Hermann returns from a long and soul-crushing incarceration in a Russian POW camp. Plot twist follows plot twist until the story expands to include Karl Oswald (Ivan Desny), a wealthy industrialist who hires Maria as a secretary and later assumes an even more important role in her life. Giving away much more would diminish the experience of watching the picture, which is unmistakably arthouse fare but which also has enough pulpy content for a Harold Robbins novel.

          While Fassbinder executes The Marriage of Maria Braun with his usual clinical style, guiding actors to underplay scenes, the movie has a more vivacious editing scheme than other Fassbinder ’70s efforts. Cinematographer Michael Ballhaus, who later became Martin Scorsese’s go-to DP for a period of time, captures actions with inventive angles and nimble camera movements, allowing co-editors Fassbinder and Juliane Lorenz to create brisk pacing. The performances are generally strong, with some actors serving as puppets in Fassbinder’s scheme while others incarnate fully realized individuals. Naturally, Schygulla dominates. Enigmatic and luminous, she makes her character’s contradictions believable and fascinating. (As the heroine says to Karl at one point: “I am who I am. Last night I was Maria Braun who wanted to sleep with you. Today I’m Maria Braun who wants to work for you.”)

          Screenwriters Pea Frölich and Peter Märthesheimer enrich The Marriage of Maria Braun by including dialogue that succinctly encapsulates themes, although it’s likely Fassbinder had an invisible hand in the writing. In one scene, the idealistic Maria says to a fellow dancehall girl, “A great love is a great truth.” The dancehall girl’s response: “The truth is what you have in your belly when you’re hungry.” In a different scene, Maria delivers one of the finest character-defining lines ever spoken: “It’s not a good time for feelings, but it suits me.” In addition to winning numerous international awards, such as a Golden Globe nomination for Best Foreign Film, The Marriage of Maria Braun was the first movie in Fassbinder’s so-called “BRD Trilogy,” which continued with Lola (1981) and Veronika Voss (1982).

The Marriage of Maria Braun: RIGHT ON