Tubby the Tuba (1975)

Based on source material held in some esteem (more on that later), Tubby the Tuba is among the lesser animated features released during the ’70s, so even though the story is a harmless morality tale extolling worthy virtues, the experience of watching the picture is quite tedious. Dick Van Dyke provides the voice for the title character, an overweight brass instrument depressed that all he does is provide repetitive “oompah-oompah” rhythms. One day, he breaks from his orchestra in search of a melody to play. Yet Tubby gets sidetracked when he takes a job at a circus, delivering pails of water to thirsty elephants. One of the pachyderms, Mrs. Elephant (Pearl Bailey), asks for a demonstration of Tubby’s musical skills and rejoices in what she hears. (“That oompah turns me on!”) This leads to Tubby becoming a star attraction at the circus, which in turn causes Tubby to become an insufferable diva. Will our hero regain his humility? Will he find a melody to play? As Tubby the Tuba follows the blandest possible children’s-entertainment patterns, the answers to these questions should be painfully obvious. Tubby’s story originated as a narrated classical-music piece in the 1940s, and it was first animated, via stop-motion, for an Oscar-nominated 1947 short film. The expansion of the piece to feature length did not serve poor Tubby well. Even with Van Dyke valiantly striving to inject his characterization with pathos, the narrative is enervated and predictable and stupid, with the material added to flesh out the running time coming across as pure filler. By the time Tubby meets an underappreciated singing frog, the filmmakers seem absolutely desperate to compensate for the limitations of their one-dimensional leading character. Putting this sort of thing over requires magic, but Tubby the Tuba is never more than mundane. One might even say it’s oompathetic.

Tubby the Tuba: LAME

The Morning After (1974)

          An unflinching made-for-TV story about alcoholism energized by the casting of  likeable Dick Van Dyke in the leading role, The Morning After tracks a man’s descent from managing a drinking problem to something much worse. Adapted from Jack B. Weiner’s novel by the great Richard Matheson, in one of his rare ventures outside the realm of genre fiction, the film moves at a remarkable pace, zooming from one incisive episode to the next. Van Dyke, who was open about his real-life alcoholism, attacks his role with tremendous commitment, so while he can’t quite reach the depths that, say, Jack Lemmon or Ray Milland did in their celebrated performances as men addicted to alcohol, Van Dyke erases any trace of his usual light-comedy style. Aiding Van Dyke considerably is costar Lynn Carlin, who plays the protagonist’s wife. Rather than simply delivering a rote version of the familiar “long-suffering spouse” role, she plays each scene specifically and vividly, illustrating the torment of a woman trying to reconcile the need for self-preservation with the desire to help a loved one. Other supporting players, including Don Porter (as the protagonist’s boss), render fine work as well, but the filmmakers—under the sure hand of journeyman director Richard T. Heffron—wisely keep the focus on Van Dyke’s character.

          Charlie Lester (Van Dyke) works as a speechwriter for an oil company in Los Angeles. Outwardly, he lives the American Dream, with a lovely wife, Fran (Carlin), and two children. Yet what coworkers and friends are mostly too polite to mention is that Charlie drinks to excess whenever he’s near alcohol. After one too many nights when Charlie doesn’t make it home after blacking out, Fran starts to snap, kicking the film’s drama into motion. She pushes her husband to stop drinking, which only compels him to drink more, and that, in turn, causes him to show up hung over at work, infuriating his straight-arrow boss. Charlie’s episodes become more and more unruly, and on several occasions he gets physical with Fran. Every time he sobers up, Charlie gets apologetic and weepy, and he eventually agrees to try therapy. Yet even the revelation that Charlie’s self-loathing stems from withholding parents who favored his golden-boy younger brother fails to suppress Charlie’s unquenchable thirst.

          The Morning After is exceedingly simple in its construction, and that’s why it’s so effective despite running just 75 minutes. Over the course of that short running time, we watch Charlie shift from a façade of normalcy to a pathetic vision of unchecked illness. The movie offers explanations and it also offers solutions, but the filmmakers let everything hinge on Charlie’s willingness to get better. Most stories about alcoholism end up feeling like PSAs for treatment options, but The Morning After doesn’t follow that path. Instead, this fine telefilm heads unrelentingly into the heart of darkness. And if you’re wondering why The Morning After isn’t in wide circulation, music is probably the reason; cover versions of the Beatles’ “Yesterday” are woven into the storytelling, and one imagines that licensing the song’s continued use is prohibitively expensive.

The Morning After: GROOVY

The Runner Stumbles (1979)

          The final film directed by self-appointed cinematic moralist Stanley Kramer, this peculiar drama presents a sensationalistic story in a manner that ranges from absurdly lighthearted to absurdly overwrought. To be fair, most scenes occupy a palatable middle ground of rationality and restraint. Nonetheless, the extremes define this piece, as does the suffocating artificiality that permeates every scene, whether the scene in question is bad, good, or indifferent. To get a sense of why this picture is simultaneously respectable and ridiculous, The Runner Stumbles stars jovial song-and-dance man Dick Van Dyke as a middle-aged priest suspected of not only sleeping with a pretty young nun, but also of murdering her—not exactly “Chim Chim Cher-ee” territory. And when Ray Bolger, the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz (1939), shows up to represent the full weight of religious authority, The Runner Stumbles approaches self-parody.

          Set in a remote part of Michigan circa 1911, and based loosely upon a true story, the picture begins with Father Rivard (Van Dyke) fetching his parish’s latest addition, fresh-faced Sister Rita (Kathleen Quinlan), from a transit station. They strike sparks immediately, because she’s challenging and curious while he’s a bundle of conflicts—on one hand, he’s a stickler for rules and tradition since he’s tired of fighting the church establishment, and on the other hand, he’s a passionate freethinker who once imagined a more important destiny for himself. Rita’s attitude represents a bracing change from the two sickly older nuns she was hired to assist, and Rita soon raises eyebrows by teaching secular songs to local children. Later, when the older nuns contract tuberculosis, Rivard suggest that Rita move into his residence, thereby separating her from contagions. This scandalizes everyone involved, from Rivard’s devout housekeeper, Mrs. Shandig (Maureen Stapleton), to the monsignor with authority over Rivard’s parish, Nicholson (Bolger). The fraught scenario climaxes in a noisy final act comprising a fire, illicit sex, and a trial shot through with venomous accusations. Framing the main storyline is a recurring courtroom sequence featuring Rivard—incarcerated on suspicion of murder after Rita’s body is discovered—receiving counsel from his inexperienced young lawyer, Toby Felker (Beau Bridges).

          Excepting Bridges’ loose and naturalistic work, everything about The Runner Stumbles is old-fashioned and sterile. Quinlan plays her role like Shirley Temple with mood swings, utterly failing to make Rita’s dangerous instability seem credible. Van Dyke is equally stiff in many scenes, though he paints colors of bitterness and rage with surprising skill. Unfortunately, Van Dyke is so broad and theatrical during the film’s crucial trial scene that he undercuts his few good moments elsewhere. That’s why the abrupt and unsatisfying ending doesn’t really matter: It’s just one more false note in an atonal symphony.

The Runner Stumbles: FUNKY

Cold Turkey (1971)

          Although he’s best known as one of the most successful comedy producers in the history of television, Norman Lear dabbled in features during the late ’60s and early ’70s, scoring a few minor hits as a screenwriter. His lone effort as a director was not as successful. The hyperkinetic satire Cold Turkey boasts an outlandish premise and impressive production values, to say nothing of a few wickedly funny moments, but the picture falls victim to its own ambitions. Based on a novel by Margaret Rau and Neil Rau called I’m Giving Them Up for Good, the movie begins when tobacco-company executive Mervin Wren (Bob Newhart) contrives a publicity stunt: His company pledges $25 million to any American town whose residents can give up smoking for an entire month. The offer is not sincere, however, because Wren figures nobody can muster the necessary willpower—but Wren didn’t count on Eagle Rock, Iowa, a struggling town where Rev. Clayton Brooks (Dick Van Dyke) is eager to demonstrate leadership so he can win a transfer to a more affluent parish.

          Brooks makes it his mission to win the $25 million, so the bulk of the movie comprises his farcical attempts to keep residents from smoking, even as he fights off his own nicotine cravings. The unsubtle message is that Americans are so addicted to creature comforts they can’t make sacrifices under any circumstances, and Lear goes way over the top skewering American gluttony. During Eagle Rock’s smoke-free month, couples turn into sex maniacs to subvert their cravings; the local doctor (Barnard Hughes) becomes a scalpel-wielding maniac; the town drunk (Tom Poston) flees Eagle Rock rather than take part in the experiment; and so on. Lear stocks the picture with so many great comedy professionals—including the aforementioned plus Vincent Gardenia, Woodrow Parfrey, Jean Stapleton, and the comedy duo of Bob & Ray—that some of the gags connect even though the satire is incredibly obvious. There’s also a lot to be said for the film’s frenetic pace, since the movie zooms along at a crazy speed as it builds toward greater levels of chaos. In fact, had Lear found an ending that justified the manic buildup, Cold Turkey might have become a comedy classic. Instead, he opted for a dark ending that jarringly transforms the movie from sly to cynical. (Available as part of the MGM Limited Collection on Amazon.com)

Cold Turkey: FUNKY