Something Evil (1972)

          Fans can argue about which project represents Steven Spielberg’s first feature-length directorial endeavor, since he made a lengthy amateur film in 1964 and helmed a pair of 90-minute TV episodes, including the first regular installment of Columbo, in 1971. Yet the excellent made-for-TV thriller Duel is generally considered his proper cinematic debut because it’s a stand-alone project distinguished by Spielberg’s trademark visual imagination. Three years later, Spielberg graduated to theatrical features with The Sugarland Express (1974), and then came Jaws (1975). Nestled within Spielberg’s filmography, however, are two mostly forgotten telefilms. They represent his sole output for the years between Duel and The Sugarland Express, steps along his path from promising newcomer to certified wunderkind.

          The first of these pictures, Something Evil, is unimpressive. A story about demonic possession with a suspicious resemblance to The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty’s hit 1971 novel, the picture stars Sandy Dennis and Darren McGavin as a New York City couple who impulsively move to a house in the country. Written without much subtlety or verve by Robert Clouse (who later found success as a director of action films), Something Evil hits nearly every cliché imaginable. The kooky neighbor warning about evil spirits as he performs weird rituals. The strange noises emanating from various places late at night. The inexplicable changes in people’s behavior. The equally inexplicable denial by rational people that something strange is happening. So while the setup is simple enough and the climax has a small supernatural kick, most of Something Evil is boring—not a word one generally associates with Spielberg.

         Dennis isn’t especially interesting to watch, McGavin gets shoved offscreen for long stretches, and juvenile actor Johnny Whitaker (previously of the TV series Family Affair) is a generic Hollywood kid. There’s also not enough screen time for enjoyable supporting players Ralph Bellamy and Jeff Corey. Thus the only real novelty stems from searching for hints of Spielberg’s prodigious talent. A few scenes in Something Evil are shot well, with dramatic angles and moody lighting, but the whole thing feels so enervated and rushed that it’s hard to believe the same man made magic of out Duel the previous year. Maybe he was tired after rigging all those cool shots of tires and highways.

Something Evil: FUNKY

Snowball Express (1972)

One of the weaker products to roll off the live-action assembly line at Walt Disney Productions, this plodding and unfunny “comedy” stars Disney regular Dean Jones as Johnny Baxter, a beleaguered office drone who inherits ownership of a hotel in Colorado. Uprooting his family and relocating to Colorado, Johnny discovers that the business is actually defunct, so he contrives a scheme to transform the hotel into a ski resort. Meanwhile, evil local banker Martin Ridgeway (Keenan Wynn) tries to exploit Johnny’s financial vulnerability in order to buy the business, because he wants to harvest and sell lumber from the abundant woods on the hotel’s sprawling property. Since the preceding story is obviously better suited to a drama or even a thriller, it’s no surprise that the makers of Snowball Express must strain to generate jokes. The picture’s two longest sequences are extended ski runs during which Jones and others flail their way down steep hills, but instead of actually integrating impressive stunt footage, the filmmakers rely on flimsy process shots. This methodology is especially frustrating seeing as how much of Snowball Express was shot on location in Colorado; whereas inconsequential scenes feature big skies and wintry atmosphere, key moments feel phony. Adding to the enervated nature of Snowball Express are tiresome running gags about mischievous animals. Even worse is the clichéd material about an ornery old prospector (Harry Morgan) who loiters around the hotel and then—surprise!—becomes a loveable porter once Johnny opens the ski resort. Every single beat in Snowball Express follows the Disney family-values playbook, from the judgmental subplot about a homewrecker (Joanna Phillips) to the trope of the hero’s plucky son (Johnny Whitaker) surprising his father by demonstrating unexpected resourcefulness. By the time Snowball Express climaxes with an interminable snowmobile race (occasioning another volley of anemic FX and idiotic pratfalls), the picture has achieved complete tedium.

Snowball Express: LAME

Napoleon and Samantha (1972)

          For every family film made by Walt Disney Productions that hit the bull’s-eye in terms of marrying subject and theme, there seem to be half-a-dozen oddities whose plotting is explicable only if one imagines Disney people pulling random narrative elements from a hat. For instance, Napoleon and Samantha is about preteen runaways who embark on an adventure with a former circus lion until the children are endangered by a psychopath and rescued by a graduate student. Oh, and a huge portion of the film comprises a soulful exploration of mortality, with depressing speeches about death and a lengthy funeral scene. Yet the strangest thing about Napoleon and Samantha is that it’s watchable despite the loopy storyline. Veteran Disney director Vincent McEveety moves things along quickly, as always, and the cast benefits from the presence of seasoned performer Will Geer, as well as that of newcomers Michael Douglas, who was in his early 20s when he shot the picture, and Jodie Foster, who wasn’t yet 10. Alas, none of these people is the lead, with that function instead performed by ’70s kid-flick star Johnny Whitaker. He’s no worse than any other Hollywood kid trained in faking emotions, but his work exists on a plane far below that occupied by his more notable costars.

          The peculiar movie begins by establishing the lifestyle of rural urchin Napoleon (Whitaker), who lives with his kind-hearted grandfather (Geer). Napoleon’s best friend is Samantha (Foster), who resides nearby with her stern guardian, Gertrude (Ellen Corby). One day, Napoleon and Grandpa encounter an old circus clown who is traveling with Major, a tame lion. Inexplicably, Grandpa accepts the clown’s request to become Major’s caregiver. After a few cutesy scenes of life on the farm with a lion, Grandpa dies, so Napoleon goes to a job office and hires graduate student Danny (Douglas) as a gravedigger. Seriously, this is the plot! Lying to Danny by saying that a relative will soon collect Napoleon, the boy instead embarks on a trip with Major—and Samantha, who tags along for reasons that are never particularly clear. Then, once the trio survives near-misses with nasty animals and steep cliffs, they track down Danny—who promptly leaves them in the care of a stranger. Naturally, Danny discovers the stranger is an escaped psychopath (as one will), and runs to the kids’ rescue. For viewers willing to ignore logic, Napoleon and Samantha has a few admirable elements. Douglas, Foster, and Geer elevate their roles as much as possible, given the material, and Major—an animal performer featured in myriad films and TV shows—has an impressive bag of tricks. Plus, truth be told, the scenes about death have a certain lyricism, even if they feel like they belong in a different movie.

Napoleon and Samantha: FUNKY

The Biscuit Eater (1972)

          Over the years, the Walt Disney Company has made countless movies about children bonding with animals, but it’s hard to get too critical about these films. After all, pictures such as The Biscuit Eater express honorable values ranging from honesty to responsibility. However, there’s only so much entertainment value that one can derive from syrupy scenes of wide-eyed children moping over critters. That said, The Biscuit Eater is a decent example of this genre, 90 minutes of freshly harvested corn. As directed by Disney regular Vincent McEveety, the picture zips along at a brisk pace, with the two leading child actors delivering such upbeat performances that they seem more like Disney World animatronics than human beings. The whole enterprise is quite slick, from cinematography to scoring, and adult actors play their one-note roles efficiently. Plus, The Biscuit Eater mostly eschews the practice of attributing human behaviors to animals, so it’s a straightforward coming-of-age piece rather than a fantasy.

          Based on a novel by James H. Street that was previously filmed in 1940, The Biscuit Eater concerns a 12-year-old Georgia boy, who is white, and his best friend, who is black, taking guardianship of a misfit canine. As the boys train the dog, they learn lessons about consequences, economics, intolerance, and sacrifice. Johnny Whitaker, the bright-eyed redhead from the Family Affair TV series, stars as Lonnie McNeil, whose parents are hard-working Harve (Earl Holliman) and Mary Lee (Pat Crowley). Harve trains hunting dogs for Mr. Ames (Lew Ayres), the owner of the land on which the McNeils live and work. Lonnie’s closest pal is Text (George Spell), the son of neighboring widow Charity (Beah Richards). Through a convoluted set of circumstances involving Harve and wily gas-station proprietor Willie Dorsey (Godfrey Cambridge), Lonnie and Text become the owners of dog they name “Moreover.” The boys prep Moreover for entrance into a hunting contest, then learn that succeeding in the contest might adversely effect Harve, who has won the contest for two years running. Meanwhile, most of the film’s likeable characters clash with a violent local named Mr. Eben (Clifton James). Danger, heartbreak, homilies, and redemption ensue.

          Written in a colorful style that verges on stereotyping, The Biscuit Eater is full of lines like “I been hankerin’ for a dog for a right smart spell.” When delivered by pros Cambridge, Holliman, and Richards, the Southern-fried dialogue sounds quasi-authentic and quasi-endearing. When delivered by the juvenile stars, it’s a bit much. (Also tipping the scales toward schmaltz is the inevitable interlude during which Whitaker whines, “Don’t die, puppy dog, please don’t die!”) All in all, though, The Biscuit Eater means well, and the themes it communicates are worthwhile, even if the delivery method is trite.

The Biscuit Eater: FUNKY

Tom Sawyer (1973) & Huckleberry Finn (1974)

          The sibling songwriting duo of Richard M. Sherman and Robert B. Sherman had a huge impact on family entertainment in the ’60s, writing songs for projects including the blockbuster musical Mary Poppins (1964) and Disney’s theme parks (the Shermans wrote “It’s a Small World”). Their dominance of the family-film game ebbed in the ’70s, but not before they expanded their creative purview to include screenwriting. The Shermans wrote the scripts and a brace of original songs for Tom Sawyer, adapted from Mark Twain’s 1876 novel The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and Huckleberry Finn, adapted from Twain’s revered 1884 sequel Adventures of Huckleberry Finn; both films were produced by Arthur P. Jacobs, whose previous entry into the realm of movie musicals was 1967’s super-expensive Doctor Dolittle.

          Given their big-budget pedigree, it’s unsurprising that both Twain adaptations look fantastic, boasting authentic production design and slick photography. However, as Jacobs discovered with the disastrous Dolittle, musicals are all about the songs, and the Twain adaptations are mostly tone-deaf. Plus, although the underlying narratives are timeless, the Shermans make such vapid adaptive choices that the stories end up seeming contrived and stiff.

          Tom Sawyer is the better of the two movies, but only marginally so. Johnny Whitaker (from TV‘s Family Affair) plays Tom in all of the familiar adventures: convincing his friends to paint a fence; witnessing a murder with his buddy, Huck Finn (Jeff East); falling in love with a pretty young neighbor (Jodie Foster); testifying about the murder in court; and enduring a scary underground confrontation with crazed killer Injun Joe (Kunu Hank). Whitaker is cute and enthusiastic, but not skillful enough to create the illusion of Tom’s preternatural cleverness. Therefore, the dramatic heavy lifting falls to screen veterans Celeste Holm (as Tom’s long-suffering Aunt Polly) and Warren Oates (as Tom’s drunkard friend Mutt). As for the songs, the Shermans’ style of cutesy wordplay and syrupy sentimentality clashes with Twain’s thorny sarcasm. The underscore is actually better than the tunes, thanks to the participation of composer John Williams, who earned an Oscar nomination for his work but did not return for the sequel. Ultimately, the most irritating aspect of Tom Sawyer is that it’s decent whenever people aren’t singing, because the plot is full of exciting events and the production values are terrific.

          Ironically, Huckleberry Finn has the key element that eluded Tom Sawyer (a great song), but it’s a lesser film in every other regard. Part of the problem is the odd plotting of Twain’s novel, which has confounded literary critics for generations; though ostensibly the brilliant parable of runaway ragamuffin Huck (East) bonding with runaway slave Jim (Paul Winfield), the story is episodic and burdened with an infuriating third act (which the Shermans omit in favor of something more poetic). As in the first picture, East is competent but not special, and he’s pretty much the whole show, since the formidable Winfield is kept offscreen for a great deal of the movie. Even the presence of lively supporting player Harvey Korman (as a con man who calls himself “The King”) isn’t enough to break the overall tedium. On the plus side is that great song, “Freedom,” which is sung over the opening credits by Roberta Flack. Although “Freedom” eventually gets buried in maudlin strings, the song is a simple reflection of the story’s main theme, and therefore a welcome musical change from the gimmicky trifles that permeate these tiresome films.

Tom Sawyer: FUNKY

Huckleberry Finn: LAME